The sheepish hair growing from the sidewalks,
is the traffic light of my new hard hat,
it knits me an audacious envelope,
and sends me off to a strangers welcome mat.
The fine strands of light get caught on my ripped skin,
leaving a trail of knotted flesh,
a trail fed on by whimsical cities of dust,
it's all yours, I'm starting fresh.
Caution signs cling to me,
post-its are found in my underwear,
chalkboards take over my vocal chords,
and envious alarms begin to swear.
My fingernails are impatient switches,
waiting for paper airplanes to fall into my nest,
I'm a bird lacking in building material,
and you just happened to be offering your venerate chest.
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