There’s a pastor who speaks with a twist
With his lips puckered tight as a fist
From the nave he’s been heard
As he whispers the Word
Of the Seventh Day Adventriliquist

I'm a dead person living in shambles,
The ever so tempting urge to disappear,
Is beckoning me from the corridor,
Smelling of easy success.
It's lips like candied cotton,
Eyes of care and warmth,
It's whispers all I've ever wanted to hear,
And promises me that I, too, can dream,
Regardless, it will follow me.

Hazy thoughts
Like smoke dissipating

Clung to
Yet too soon fleeting

Like one of your cigarettes
Snubbed out

Whiskey breath
The scents are all I have left

I dialed your number
Let it ring

Once, twice
Quickly hung up

Why would fear seize me
Dear old friend

Perhaps it is because
We occupied a place
Best forgotten

Let my eyes drink in
The color of your eyes
Let them encase in amber
Your sweet smile
Come, sit with me, awhile

Let me dip into the well
Of your full love
As I thank the stars above
For the depth and breath
Of what you are

Softer than rustle of leaves in the wind
Or shifting grains of sand
Nothing compares to blanketing warmth
You emit with touch of your hand