“Spare a penny, Sir?":

        Frosted winds berate small tins --
        Forsaken headstones.

My body is the
temple where both love and hate
reside in turmoil.

I would rather feel
the harsh sting from your silence
than nothing at all.

Life like sand castles
Wash away so blissfully
Crumbles in your hand

the clock's tick burrows
holes into my skull. the day
goes by too slowly

I can still taste the
blackened ash on my burnt lips
left by three coarse words.

My head is lacking
the capacity to think
in straight lines and squares.

Dusty lies the earth,
Cracking under sin so strong,
Child don't cry for me.

Atop sleeps it still,
Whirling waters run below,
Punctured, sleeps no more.

Wind is screaming out,
Teasing the truth from inside,
Cover me up tight.

Ablaze be my shell,
Retching putrid flames of joy,
Shrieking in my eyes.

Trace of what once was:
Cinders bearing what will be.
Only faith is left.

You crashed into me,
and as we sunk to the depths
you brought the world too.