Stutter-step, shutterbug, slaughterhouses

I see life through crystalline slaughterhouses

My flightless life is confined to snapshots of buzzing pinwheels

This lonely dance floor extends its arms to me,

The dance of the dead sways and stirs to the blues music echoes from 6 feet above

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The poet is resigned to the desperate plight of a forlorn lover

In this asphalt city, he’s been robbed and vandalized time and time again

His wallet is missing, his shoes are too, and yet his ability to write

Still does not extend to the ability to remove the blindfold he’s been traveling with

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We heard the party was here

Have we been mistaken or are you hiding a knife behind your back?

Stand still as if we what we could be is what we are

And imagine the corpses being lifted to heaven in light of our grievances

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I’m lost in the scent of your hair

The image if you body next to mine is fond but distant memory

We’ve long since accepted the fact that these star-crossed desires were futile

How could I ever hide these fangs?