will the vigilante in the audience please stand up?

My tongue collapsed against the small metal roof.
The concrete of the stairs melted into the snow,
the world like glossy hydration,
picking up dirt as a brook diverted down the wrong path.
 
The windows to the world were
made of a vintage aqua-green wrapping paper,
recovered from the frames of a burnt down nightclub
somewhere in Tallahassee.
Someone said that they lure you to a watery death,
like a kelpie with a grudge against strangers.
 

The house was a beautiful, fiery maroon
on the inside, smoke desperately clambering out
of an iron fireplace with cramped wood and a melting bic. The
rocking chair shook relentlessly,
and the typewriter on the small desk in the corner wrote tremendous lies and splintering truths
all by itself.
 
The picture frames were covered in orange paint,
drenching the disembodied faces
with imaginary realities of who they could’ve been
and who they’d been out in the wheat field
down at the park off the highway.

A body with no beady eyes,
no spider hands,
no legs no mouth no nothing,
wore a button up flannel
and asked to be written a future
and as the crowd watched his struggle
he wondered how he’d change the world

so covered in scars
caused by his own chains.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/837m7l/heaven/dvgm8xo/

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/83acu9/a_time_series_analysis/dvgm1ga/