johnny's empire.

a man tilting his head backwards
 the trees they tilt in accommodation
and years have past
long uneventful winters
and falls
and the little outbreaks of summer
and spring that crawl in a mans heart
april
the cruels of months
let us repeat ourselves
the man he sits
the accumulated sorrows of some
30 years or so
lye just beneath
his eyes
form arcs
of dark
ness
"what a dream in
the basement
we had
coated with darkness
and little room
to breath"
fact of the matter is
in his fathers colliding house
his mothers wrinkled
middle class palms
holding middle class gowns
serving
middle class tea
there isnt
room to breath
room to be
 room to burst
unaccessibly
so he lost odette
the fire in lungs
built to dream,
the man sits
whatever idea comes to mind
has come to mind before
and now he wishes to just
stare at walls and papers
and floors
tilting his head
as the trees accommodate.