it's a cheap trick
to build our castles
where the kissing bugs sleep with the enemy...
sleep
with the victim's eyes
as the long odds short the till
and purchase the promise
of dead
angels...

they
grow up, so fast
those tiny gods, that have no clergy
save the possessed bludgeons
that hammer the youth
of our long dead
living...
it's not how we sit here
and lose our minds
as much as we sing fear to the sun
of our midnight
as much as we cloy in the murk
of our undone song...

simpletons all

in the complication
of the Truth.

Hurrah.

three cheers
for nearly loving enough.
outlasting the everlasting-
happening.

the
deployed tangents of our
worthless
moons...

the
cool rigor of judgement
stripping the stars from our mantle
like a knife steals a perfect skin
from a hostage.
a blot on the
"Why?"

where the revelations
are breathless
but your bible, an unclean wicked.
a spotless god
of grief
a hammer
you fell for
twice.

And a Love
You Loved
Once

For
Nothing*.