We are clouds, captured in horizons of skeleton fingerprints.
We burn like love;
set aflame as porcelain nightmares haunt our smoke coloured bones.
We paint silhouette dreams;
wearing our fake faces for the plastic bag masquerade.
We ride paper crows.
We pretend these heartbeats are bullets;
for our spines have become factories manufacturing hyena smiles.
We are Pilots.
You are not.
Golden flags down our throats.
