She stole the car to protest sleep’s abandonment. The ovation was given when the middle of winter found his voice,
when the miracle was dragged from the crowd of spiders. And so the faithless are forever received with banners.
I am bones because I have eaten myself whole.
My skin has been stapled shut by the air.
I want to hear whispers again.
The weight of every rib picks at the devils left to wander my hands and I cannot feel a heart.
Wall of Dawn
A waning crescent moon lies dormant, as it ignores the discourse from the sun.
The night, failing to honor its pact of sun and of morning—a disrespect of the solar pilgrimage—creates melancholy amongst the stars.
The sun flexes against the green earth and breaks the solitary castle of night.
Matthew Coleman was born in Buffalo, NY, which is where he currently resides. He is finishing up a BA in English and creative writing at SUNY Buffalo State and is interested in obtaining his MFA in poetry. His work has been featured in Mused and in various SUNY publications.
Cover photo: Zach Benard