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The half smoked cigarettes lay decapitated from their cylindrical ash heads like mummies, crinkled and dry and ancient. The paper is wrapped around the strings of tobacco like rags around bundles of herbs and god-like jars. Their neck stained brown with nicotine; a ghost of my inhales. Laying quietly like cast of ammo cartridges on the windowsill, nothing but paper and tobacco without my hand and lungs.
There are wolf spiders in my room,
and buzzards are constantly overhead.
The crows see me and signal warning,
and the cats always come crawling.

I burn herbs to ward off
the scent of loneliness.
I light candles to scare away
the darkness.

Autumn is here,
and everything is preparing to sleep.
I wear black to blend in with the night,
so my dreams can't find me.

The moon is full
and my heart is empty.

These mushrooms are poisonous,
and I grow more hungry everyday.
Everything else is already ready,
for me to take a bite.
5 The time came at last
7 To defend their ancient land
5 Men making arrows
9 The council making preparations

5 Their magic was strong
7 But their will was much stronger
5 They forged their weapons
9 Wove their Mithral armor with old spells

5 The animals knew
7 Smelling the fear in the wind
5 Fitted with barding
9 Ready to ride and die in battle

5 The Elders silent
7 They had seen wars here before
5 In ancient times past
9 The young do not remember that war
5 The old don’t want to

5 They stood solemnly
7 Stringing their bows and waiting
5 They could smell the fire
9 Enemies would soon be upon them
When you sing, the smile lines around your mouth come out, curving along with the sharp lines of your face. Your eyes closed in passion and concentration, brow furrowed, your profile illuminated by the glow of the dashboard lights. A vein rises, running like a river from behind your ear, down your neck, and disappearing behind your collarbone. I trace my fingertips lightly along the skin of your neck while you sing, the muscles and tendons tight from your exhalations.

Your taste in music is intelligent. The taste of you is divine. The way you sing when no one else is around, makes me feel as though I'm witnessing a miracle, or something never seen by human eyes before. Your voice fills the cab of the truck and my ears and my heart.

I can't look away from you, in the way I imagine, people stared up at saints as they were on their knees in awe.
9:30 am.

A tequila sunrise and 27 pesos later
I am sitting, balancing myself
On the plastic, graffiti-covered bus seat,
Listening to the cheesy Mexican radio
And feeling the eyes of those three men
On my body from two rows back.

We make our way
45 miles an hour
Down the narrow boulevard.
My drink splashing side to side
As the bus races around the bends
And slams its breaks on
Outside the busy gathering
Of dark skin and fruit stands.
I waited,

in the dark;

like a spider yearning for a fly.

and I swore I seen you there;

standing in the place where the streetlamps shone through the broken windows and stretched out in diamonds across the floor.
Everything I've ever loved has died,
or caught fire,
or both.

I cannot seem to keep things, or people;
always disappearing,
or being destroyed,
or running away.

I want love and only give destruction.
I want a good life yet have only been dealt in ruins.

My history;
a series of inverse cards on a table,
the taste ashes in my mouth,
and the feel of blood in the hands.

Pain can always be found hidden within the pleasures,
and more oft than not,
I get great pleasure from the pain.

Some days I rule in Hell,
and some days I serve in Heaven,
but in neither duty am I ever completely satisfied.

— The End —