A chariot of creatures was circling the sun
And moving by its light and exposing everyone
There's no such thing as hidden, nor stone that's left unturned
And all the earth's uncovered, in waiting to be burned
And even all the fishes who populate the seas
Are dwindling in number, a school of vacancies
If anyone was counting, they too have disappeared
Unraveled in the darkness to which they had adhered
Becoming one is easy when death is in the air
For anything that's breathing will enter in its lair
But some will see a second, another kind of end
A ghost of desperation that chose to play pretend

The day is gone,
along with my mind.
The tears on your cheeks remain,
but the streetlight made your lips more inviting
then my heart could dare handle.
I gave in to your shoulder blades,
surrendered my veins to your spine.
The children still play in the trees,
but refuse to come down on Sundays.
I am sorry I broke your eyes,
just close them through February.
Even the stars fall off their pedestals.

Having defied gravity
(not me personally
but by proxy
namely through
a dog, monkey and Soyuz
and fruit flies and bullfrogs
and lately through NASA)
I defy humility
I brave it, I challenge it
for there’s too much hypocrisy
in humility
For humility is such
that it never speaks its name
For when it speaks of Humility
it is Sans Humility
Take me
for example -
you hardly hear me
mention myself as Saint Humility, do you?
But that’s what I am, my other name: Humility
But people keep insisting on calling me Saint Humility
But I defy Humility


POSTSCRIPT
I also defy repetition
and over-emphasis
and contradiction, paradox
But, it must not be left unsaid -
in defying humility,
I think I’ve also
quite inadvertently
defined humility: *Saint Me

The blood on your wrist
should be coating veins.
The salt on your cheeks
should dry by morning.
I should feel your heart,
not just your finger tips.
You said it was only fair
to save it for me,
the only girl you ever loved.
I gave it to him instead,
in the backseat on a sidesteeet,
only to be carried farther from the only arms to ever hold me
like they ment it.
I'm sorry I couldn't feel your hands on my eye lids,
begging me to see the love I had
before I found it in the palm of someone else's hands.
My lips are like sunflowers,
but even more fragile.
Every may I am plucked from the garden
and held tightly
for a moment in a field,
until morning dew swallows me whole.
As for love,
my father never taught me how,
and the words he placed at the tip of my tongue never fit in the space between your fingertips.
Keep them for someone else's lips.
Someone who isn't made if sunflowers
that will wilt in your hands.