Bury me head first
So everyone will have to stand on my ***

speak to me

in indo-european

make love to me

with the kama sutra

burn me

with the greek fire

break down my walls

with the trebuchet

pierce my soul

with the pistol

Will I ever find home?
I seek the shelter of not just a house
but a sense of place
where I can find a purpose

Will I ever find home?
I thought I did once
but it was only an empty room
filled with cheap thrills and long nights at bars

Will I ever find home?

Two cypress trees stand bare together
in the Atchafalaya

Midway between Aurora
And tomorrow

Or maybe just more casualties
To the brackish tide?

Regret.
What should I tell you?

Should I say I can embrace you?
But we're stuck in this now.
******, let go!
Now I feel like crap.

Should I tell you to *******?
But no, I need you!
Please come back!
*******, now I want to let go again!

I still feel like crap.

A good long cry is cathartic in the deepest of griefs,
so they say.

So why is it when I cry, I only feel worse afterwards?

Perhaps this grief etches the center of my heart,
like a signature on a tree's bark
that fades with time but never disappears

or a wound that festers forever
still trying to push out its cause
years after it has been sustained

(Perhaps I am picking at it?)

I wish not to rage
against the dying of the light.

For sometimes the light must go.

Into the night.