flies swirling,
eyes are pearls
reflecting empty sky.

fragmented.
light imbibed elsewhere.
suspended end-of-all-things.

it all makes sense when it didn't;
didn't do the math right.

rite.
write.
left.
right.
we all march towards death
like it's our mother;
God waits anxiously by the
proverbial ****-soaked bedside.

remember when we would
slowdance beneath indifferent
stars when you weren't backstroking
through my blood?

yea, me neither.
but that image sure hangs pretty
in a frame, right?

me,
so many questions.
as restless as unbroken bathroom mirrors.
I don't know where this is leading.

there are threads between all that,
I promise.

there is a silver lining in all this,
I'm sure of it.

to the empty mine wailing in a windy
night in some foothills
somewhere,
I hear you.
I hear you.

right when we think we
have it figured out,
doors behind doors
behind more ******* doors.

every black cloud in
these ugly grey skies
hides that blue that I've
already started to forget about.

more ******* doors.

the telephone never rings;
all quiet amongst the tombstones,
names worn away by the rain.

she died all alone in her two-tone
Chevrolet with a broken radio,
a full tank of gas,
and the garage door closed.

they didn't find her for months.
I say they never found her at all.

burning farms before the locusts feast.

you sure showed them.