Ask the snakes building castles of clouds with their words
Who taught them to carry hope on their tongues
And spit them with the graceful flight of bullets
Into the attentive trenches behind the milk of our eyes
And they will slither slowly in the sand
Patient maps like a seductive dance
That do no read like the sour salts in these lines
A map that will only become clear
After the rubble has fallen from the skies
To flatten the spirits that live on the ground
After our eyes have keeled with the blood of our pain
The snakes maps will resemble the ghosts that appear in mirrors
When you stand behind them
A ghost wearing a tired jacket like a cliché
The Lost Scrolls 