fresh wind

on the glazed screens
ghostly pixels which
make/mark/carve up
images you mistake for love

the movements and moments
you once saw in your dear one
replayed, in a perverted show
to tickle something buried, long ago

and from behind the screens
-- screams --
to remind you that sirens need not sing
that beautifully

yes, even the muck draws us flies in

...

and when,
longing for that clear breath of wind
to breeze through you
and clean your soul

you indulge in a tear;
you tear the screens down
and you're shown life
as it's meant to be lived

and you make this lesson
your own