My Own Crop Circles by Paul Yumbla

I’m on this plane headed for the rim. Reaching divinity, finding God’s shoes. The harder you look the less you’ll find the clues. Locked away in my corner. So I no longer mourn her. I’ll keep the truth in my very own locket. Tucked neatly in my very own pocket. Listen to this. It’ll widen that eye socket. Don’t mock it. This American Dream has me tossing and turning. Has this nightmare finally wound up burning. The stress is tangible. That’s love. It’s flammable.