Smoke Treads

so I heard
you like to make mudcakes
only to dust them off
your feet
and hide the stars
behind a telescope
that mars
their far flung beauty.

and I tasted
with your baring breath
some wood grains on
your head,
shaved down cancerous
and grievously festooned;
a gravity
to rest a thought upon

and you are
a ghost beholden caulfield
an ordinary teen, born
contemporary
a scream that emanates
charged from a mother's lips
a cursed
generation that reeks of freedom

all the whirlwind
sees in its eye culminates
to one final grain of sand
and sees
a universe revolve around
you; we laugh, but only because
we blush
at the fear of never going home.