A Start?

A rattle at the end of the game from a snake.
Not kin to decent words over coffee.
We all march from the stadium naked.
The kid who spilled soda down her back in the grass.
The fuzzy door.
The painted face.
The hairspray meant to charm.
It's lost in the night though, at 4 am on a Sunday.
When I say God, you say....what?
I wouldn't believe the first thing, because that's the right thing.
Closest to jumping and flying,
then landing like a Titan.
Like God himself.
But those famous dreams are the pieces that fit on the other side.
They don't see a coffeehouse tip,
a girl with a headache.
Flying like that stops at the poisonous sound.
Yet, the natural hours are prerequisite, right?