She sits upon her throne
With a crown upon her brow
A tangled mess of dead vines and bone
She holds a scepter of rotted bough

Her throne is black as obsidian
The arms are made of skulls
Around her are her subjects
these regretful wails of souls  

This is now her kingdom
This place she was delivered
All consuming fear and fire
Where prayers cannot be whispered

Even though she did not want
She will be forever despite her quell  
She pleaded and begged all for not
She is now the queen of **Hell

"I can't say," he said.
His whole body shaking.
"I can't. I uh. Oh, ****. Ah,"
while his teeth pulled out of their sockets.
His whole frame dissolving to pieces.
Eyes popping like squeezed grapes.

"Time," said some giant with his hand full of dust,
"is just slipping away," said his echo, as he clutched at what was lost.

"I'm sick of clichés," she said, after reading what he'd written.
"'I'm sorry,' he said, said he, before curling into a ball and weeping,"
which were the last words he ever said to her,
while hers to him were:
"I'm leaving."

I wish I had a map
of every person in my life
how our paths have crossed
and how our interaction affected the next steps
I'm sure i would be proud of some
ashamed of some others
but mostly I hope
our interaction
was for the betterment of us both

many a lad
has sold his soul
for the chance to possess
a center console
he picks the T-top
and the color graphics
with an eye to how
it will look in traffic
for the rocket launchers
and numerous reels
he trades his children
and the rest he steals
gotta have the four-stroke
to drive him out yonder
so he hocks his wife
for a brand new Honda
to pull the whole lot
needs an F-150
so he cons a salesman
without looking too shifty
and drives away
in his cloud of glory
but that's not the end
of this sordid story
he's crossing the bridge
on the way to the ramp
and fails at the side
to see a sleeping *****
hobo wakes up
sees Apocalypse descending
yells like a banshee
and starts defending
his right to the road
and an open-air bed
that's when our lad's boat
hits him right in the head
blood's all over
the go-fast paint
and hobo yells
I WISH TO LODGE A COMPLAINT!
but the rig's long gone
uncontrolled weaving
driver's a-panic
and feels himself leaving
the road and the scene
his wits start to falter
as he crashes through barricades
into the water.
Now you could say
he got what he deserved
with a long prison sentence
justice was served
he sits in the slammer
regretting his role
but planning his next
BIGGER center console.

I could have
          sworn we were
                             meant to be

We argued
             so perfectly
                             together