Every moment would be fractured
Skewed, malignant, only after
Love and plenty drew them nearer
To the ending of her nightmares.

Weeping widow
Eyes of blue
Considers well the end of you
But children lie with sleepy cries
And her heart still aches, too.

With all their might
They'll push on through
To find the solution that's right
To impossible dreams and
Impossible bleeds and
Impossible themes of the night.

His heart stopped.

The world.
Stopped.
There. In the hospital bed.

Gone.

Weeping widow,
Children too,
All left to a shivering world

Their hands were cold
But his were colder

Than the snowy Christmas dawn.

I want to be a bard in the consciousness of the confluence of your eyelids,
Where the sounds merge into silence.
And nurture me from where your consciousness sprouts,
I would thrum like the waves of the ocean to the emanations of your reverberations....

I wonder how long you stay awake at night wishing you could take everything back you've ever done to hurt me. I wonder how long you stayed awake thinking about how you shattered every last bit of trust I had in you to take care of my heart...I wonder if you're really going to change this time like you say you are....or if it's going to be exactly the same as all the other times you said you'd change.....

Are you scared?
"scared of you? Hah, not even close!"
Really? I am....
"What kind of ******* is scared of himself? That doesn't make any sense!"
swords clash
The kind that knows what they're capable of when they no longer have restraints....

8:55 A.M.
Wednesday,
December 3, 2014

Eyes dry, stagnant like a box fan
in a windowless room in summer.
Del Monte plastic blades—black
on the serrated side—dice rotting
pizza tomato trash air.

Stomach like a battery acid pond.
Flannel, Dockers, hair slicked
tight like road signs, tossing oyster
crackers to acid ducks. The sky's
on fire.

Clouds textured like *******
and never-ending like Escher.

Jet planes carry ***** comatose
patients into the sun to burn
out like a light bulb
a few flickers of life gone.

Hands dry, faulted like missing
bathroom tiles at Exxon-Mobil/
Sunoco/Shell beneath the metal
sink where crabgrass sprouts
from the cracks like

cheap caulk from Second-Hand Hardware.
Bent nails, rusted patching trowels,
ants in the quick-dry drywall mix.

I'll never reach Nirvana.

I can see myself
destroying
my own dignity,
popping it like
bubble-wrap
and watching as it
deflates
under my
forcible
fingertips.