These are the stitches that fuse together wounds,
made by words,
made by mouths,
which cannot perceive what truth is,  
why it is, where it lays it's hands
in this putrescence we call home.

I am full of sinister self, ego wars within,
making my own Golden Goddess to worship.
Praying for faith
and still longing for pods of swine
in this flesh.

So where is the line in the sand?
My queen dresses in the guise of rags
which she prefers to a royal gown,
and I in pauper's cloth am none to chide her choice.

Streets are eroded and slow in  the heat of a Texas Summer.
Garbage piles up on all sides of the neon glow outside the dens of revel.
A noxious scent rises from the guts of the downtown chaos.
The last notes of the night become faint as the barkeep gives a last call
and weary youth stumble home on rusty wheels and
fresh memory.

Still there is a hunger
unsatisfied.