poetry is terrible
awful
often barely worth its own ink
and now we use computers

O hollow souls who now gather here in rows,

Now standing in its presence to rob a bit of essence

Before the fire of the day you pray,

Turn away, kneel here

Where the Angel decays

Just ash remains

Where fire cleansed

The winds sweep clean the scene and silence keeps the peace.

Sunfire marks the shadow grave.

the holes in the door,
the ones shaped like blades,
came with the place,
I just never fixed them.

the suitcase full of clothes
in the other bedroom
belongs to a man
i have not seen in years.

and that frame on the wall
with nothing inside
shaped like an antique mirror,
the kind of mirror so old
all those reflected have died?

I put that there.

over time constructions fall
returning to the earthen maw
everlasting marks in time
are fruitless expeditions all