"Humpty Dumpty was a metaphor, I think."
"What?"
"For the human psyche."
This man's skin was inhumanly pale and dusty.
He looked sick -
like he was carrying something heavy no one else could see.
"Think about it. An egg, beautiful in it's frailty."
"Teetering on a wall, ever in danger of the fall that will break him."
His eyes were lost in the thought. Cloudy.
Everything about this man made my bones want to run away

"and all the king's horses..."
He whispered. A calmness that stabbed like an icepick.
"and all the king's horses..."

I believe we met in heaven
or was it hell?

I was too drunk.
You, soft spoken and understanding,
didn't know me at all.
Yet helped me to my feet
and asked what I was doing
in the park
this late
on a Tuesday.
I told you that I was bad at lying,
then proceeded to ***** on your shoes.

I didn't know then that I'd marry you someday.

I am a mosquito on your holy-massive windshield.
You knock the air from my lungs and surround me in enough of it to crush my body.
It's all bigger than me,
all bigger than my eyes can see,
or my hands can hold.
All bigger than John mayor's body gives him credit for.

I explode my **** mixing with the blood of millions from which i drank, and you see it like a rorschach test and the results are in, you're the holy mary ******* what killed by brother, and all my brothers, and our souls are in your brain screaming ****** and pain

All bigger than all I know the universe to be, you are lightyears ahead of my understanding,
but nonetheless I strive to get passed your windshield.
I see what you have inside there and I want it.
I want to be with you there. Crushing the souls of bugs like me.
Wiping them from the glass, and not thinking twice.
But since I can't, I'll make sure to bleed for you,
so much that I leave a good smear that will take your wiper blades at least four swipes to get me off.
I'll make sure you remember me.

is that Vera Hall on your stereo, singing out from beyond the grave, singing Death Have Mercy? Vera Hall from beyond the grave hatin' on John Mayer. Vera Hall the old sooth sayer. Vera Hall with one last prayer,
Oh Death, have mercy.
Vera Hall, in a dream but lucid.
Oh Death, you're out of wiper fluid.

Beauty deep like
Mother Earth's
takes more than seven days

I don't think you exist
there, it's been said out loud
please don't hate me

I envy nature
that has not yet trapped itself
in the cage of time

Blues for the bluejeans
with holes that are worn
but not earned