I have a bin,
A bin,
A bin of every wish.

Every wish I’ve had,
Every wish sin-clad,
And every wish sung bis.

My wishes are all
So selfish,
For I only wish
To learn
What I would become
When every written page
I’ve read is ever burned.

I’ve wished for life,
I’ve wished for death,
I’ve wished to see
A final breath
Escape the lungs
Of those I love
Just to see if I
Would cry.
I wish that I
Would die.

I toss my thoughts,
My dreams,
My sins,
To join my ever-
Filling bin.

I toss them all,
All to become
My own ideal eye.
I wish that I
Would die.

And though I banish
All of the thoughts
That endanger me
By existing,

A voice that sounds
Just like my own
Persists on its insisting.

I cannot cry
Or spare a sigh
For indifference
Consumes me so.

In face of fear,
Unlike a deer,
I’ll die
With my eyes shut closed.
A surely, I’ll never know.
Surely.

Luck of the draw,
Lucked out from flaws,
Lucky is the breaking mirror.

How unfortunate for the Clover
Whose wind had brought her nearer

To the black cat,
The camp of bats,
The magpie who points destination
To a rainbow through a latter
While chirping present ticks in fascination.

How unfortunate for the Clover
Whose vision couldn’t be clearer.

She saw the birds fly west, then east;
She saw the trail the ****** left
On its rampant quest to feast
On flesh, on glass, on salt, on past
Memories of serendipity
And the seven years of misery
The mirror lost, all at the cost
Of pondering his love.

Its ink would run, and pages dry,
Its eyes would trace a butterfly
Of clouds of clay and molded slates
And the most impressive of junior art.
But it all mattered not,
For despite where was the start-

The broken reflection
Only showed a tattered angel.. with four wings-
How lucky to find a Clover here-
To have been seen by a Clover here-
To have been seen.

As I walk,
I feel a pain
In my arm
As worms feed on muscle.

As I drive,
I hear the roars
Of agony
As my soles bleed on rubble.

As I drop
My head on my counter,
I feel blood trickle
As silence fills my lungs.

Faster, and faster still,
I fall,
As these sharp winds
Leave my body wrung.

A silver pen,
A silver tongue,
A silver lining
Leaves me hung
There to suspend
Above my end.
I’m running
Out of time.
The words I write,
The words they say,
The strings pulled by
The hands of fate
All let me hang
Beyond my grave.
I’m running
Out of time.

The note I left,
The sound of screams
From those below
Who watch me leave
The spot I stood
As falling leaves
Follow me
To the floor.

The loop I made,
The tears they shed,
The rope so frayed
Tore as I bled
Down from my eyes.
Why would I cry,
When this is what I chose?
My destiny unfolds.

It’s too late.

Trust, without evidence.
Belief, without proof.
Faith, without God.
And yet, here I am,
And here I will be.
How foolish am I?
Are we?
Very.

The heat is strong,
It won’t be long,
Till the storm comes rolling in.
The clouds will cry
In drizzled sighs
Reflecting mirrored sin.
Down in Hell City
Where Hell hath sent me
And help’s consuming time
When twilight beams
In the morning star
So high up it’s near divine.

I never realized he was older.
I never thought much of him, actually.
We only ever talked in
Passing conversation that
Always went the same way.

I’ve always been “well,”
Never fine,
Or maybe not.
I’ll try something else next time,
Though I never remember.

Good job, I suppose.