By shelves of my Fathers shed I wept

Through a half creosoted door I left their world ajar. Noone saw the anvil swallow me as i painted swastikas on tailfins. I was born like woodshavings and Jesus, was sick of that smell. My Dad was born from dust, so i swept remnants of balsa into the light that ended on his crooked shelves. I heard the other world speak kindly yet ill of him, inaccurate and lazy words from mouths filled with sandwiches quartered for good impressions. In moth dead flicker I whispered goodbye, launched the last Henkel into his garden of strickened bouquets. I was five again me again, and Jesus was the chisel of my eyes, his eyes. Inspired by Paolo Cuehlo