living words. dying moments. winter.

loftier lies that we’ve grown into shine like pyrite in the eyes of hungry predators.

now, our only truths are pain and joy. our only hopes are numbness and Zen.

in winter, on stained couches, we weave lust and hate into shadows that will

keep us warm and hidden. when the sun holds no more beauty we can ravage,

we wipe the blood from old poems,

become mixed metaphors

crawling over new satin pages.

blackbirds mourn Plath

and steal our shivered pulses

to use as rhythms for their majestic heart songs.

 

some nights,

I've heard,

God sings along.

Reviews

[Emily B]

oh, oh

[Kenneth The Poet]

Brilliance written down in 2 minutes. Need more be said.

[Shmoke-Sifted Heftlande..]

damn. just damn.

[Ephialtes Jones]

thanks. this one was born in about 2 mins.just flew outa me.