his screaming, dead, grey
cast iron eyes were strong
petrified by conjured up lies
bent over and built with bronze

burnt and glazed
like candle wax upon his own lips
everything grey was turned to
spent silver bullets

all the shell casings dropped into a hot tin
the last remaining platinum lips
the metals that still haunt him

whether lost in a sudden lust
or caught up in long lost love
or rotting away with my very own rust
or strung up in a past life by the constable
forgetting you is literally impossible.

on some sunny summer day
when the wind slips sleepily on my synapse
the dark grey engravings
of everything you have ever meant to me
warm against the winter memories
of everything else

prosthetic limbs
as fake as their movements
placed the porcelain doll behind the clock
aging gave way to the dust upon her hands
wrapped in burning calendar pages

beautiful
sepia dust fallen upon
the lost and all creeping
relinquished the desperate
some simple lamenting beyond
whatever is cemented in
happy, green lawns
and illuminated lights to celebrate the holidays
being composed on any tier is sentimental