Running on empty,
Lost luck and fumes,
Choking out victims, with a distinct perfume.
Rub the glass between your palms,
And let it bleed out the toxins.
Litter the house with crude memories,
Like oil churning, polluting possibilities.
Ripping wings from flies,
And the legs from a spider.
One by one, shooting cans like army men.
Bleeding out to start again.
Snarky saints believing they're saved,
Crying blood and burning sage,
To rid themselves of the rage.
Thinking they'll see the graffitied golden gates,
When all they're doing is shoveling their own graves.