I break dawn
with a sledgehammer,
splintering the night
and scattering the stars,

and with hands made of stains,
I spend my days
piecing it back together.

The scent of autumn
was woven between
strands of her hair.

I hide myself under the shadow
of the lamp post I call home.
The sharp lines of light
just outside my reach,
ever flickering
in front of me.

Even the end of my cigarette,
burning ash warmth on cold lips,
snuffs out
just before the burning tobacco
reaches the darkness edge.

She smells like summer rain
and wet hair.
Like the forest after a storm
drowning in the sky's blessings.
She walks like chaos,
a cacophony of arms and legs
that jolt in the direction of travel.
She stands tall, with dark undereyes
and a dress that stops flowing
around her waist
but does not end
until **** near
her feet.
She stalks the night like a pedator and prey
all in one.

And she looks at me.

I woke up
To the thirst
Of moonlight.

Begging her essence

To quench my desires.

I am rotting
and poetry falls from my hands
like leaves
from a hollow tree.

They sing church hymns
until they froth at the mouth
and bleed at the ear
when will they learn
that God is a state of mind
and not a person.