I live a life of broken glass.
Pastoral wash of pastel fading,
I sliver the shards out
bit by inch.

Failing the grand design,
Chords at a continuous off-key,
cadaverous melodies I sing bittersweet.

Black seeds into somber trees,
hung gaily with swinging limbs-
as if a Christmas lynching
had left me there to watch atop
the hillside copse.