Summer strips you,
nearly bare
Like an old cartoon,
Foghorns blare from my eyes.
I can barely believe
the bronze of your shoulders

I **** myself by God
For seeing much more
Than I can possibly bare.

I pedaled slowly; a rusty chain circled its track
Quiet winds kissed my cheeks and my fingertips
Before me, a church is home to singing angels
It neighbors a house of cracking Rulers and warnings of damnation
Inside the house are black boards caked in white dust
The dust resides slyly, a subtle reminder of who I was
And from my lips a remedy falls in the form of a sigh
Knowing that the Demons inside are nothing but forgotten ghosts