The dark red

The transparent orgy of fear and judgement enters my soul, I can feel it when I sleep staining me like a white sneaker on a freshly mowed lawn. The lines in my face drawn by the mascara pens of heavily clowned strippers that go bump in the night. This is not me... this is the me that sleeps.

When my eyes are drawn to the light, I step to the edge of my window. This is where I see the children playing wiffle-ball in the street, chasing ice cream trucks while mothers dish pan their hands humming to the tune of Jackson Brown. I see my grandmothers shape in the clouds of a piercing blue sky watching over me, whispering hail mary's on her rosary until she falls asleep. The birds whistle Frank Sinatra like my Grandfather, occasionally interrupted by a blood filled ball of flem that would rip out the car window, eventually turning his loving hair-greased body into a rotting cancer corpse. I'm the kid in the candy store with a 20 dollar bill.

The transparents fear the light for they know it will turn them to dust, not a permanent fear. The dust never really disappears, it sticks to you, it hides in every crack in the floor and walls. Patiently waiting for you to sleep again.