She held my tiny hand
over the blue,
of the clicker
that ignites
the flame.
She told me,
this is pain
& this
is nothing
for what's
to come.
Cracked skies
are worse
than the scrambled,
who are already dead.
You keep trying..
And that's the curse
of an unholy blessing.
Submissive deathly,
accept their fate,
the unwilling
are the true
sufferers.
I know the place,
under the underpass
when its dark
I can forget
and feel laughter
with god-less
after popping
a few.
a white ball-cue,
won't sink the 8 ball,
but literally,
is a whole different story.