The Cure Poem by nathan martin

what comes next and who should i follow
now that the sky seems to be liquid
and my eyes glass.

cloudy pockets of air separate,
two thousand degrees past the
derived plant base.

facimile days reproduce what
else was left.


so now the farenhieght steeple
becomes are god.

in that open space we all burn bright,
three thousand degrees past a timid heart.

there you were standing next to me