Ink grey swan,
corrupted by this dirty water,
make your nest in my bedroom floors,
while I try to find the roads no one has taken.
You see the maps on my walls,
all leading to nowhere,
the continents drawn in my own hand,
the dog-eared posters sprinkled with blood?
That’s the exact color my heart would be if….
You know what?
To make this thing easier,
you could lay me some worlds,
golden colored with orange yoke
and the mint green smile of this six cornered room
where the dead poets mock me with hope
because none of the socks in those
broken milk crates are the same.