The vase was always filled with flowers.
They fought often.
He thought she could smell forgiveness with a dozen roses.
The thorns were a stabbing reminder.
For every time she trimmed them, she bled.
The scars made her ugly.
The aroma drove her crazy.
The curse was the beauty that no longer belonged there.

Just because you can turn her on
doesn't mean you'd get her off.
Black flies in Sangria
are bound to make her cough.

They caught her in a prism between red and blue.
Where lemonade is 25 cents a cup.
But you're not allowed to drink it.
Where the doors always opened.
But you can't get past the screen.
Where the windows pass the coolest breeze.
But never shut so night lets the bugs in.
Where there's always a hand willing to help.
But five more hands stabbing you in the back.
Where pianos are vintage and rare.
But nobody knows how to read the music.

My water tower in the sun, my pillar in the dark.
Rust on a warehouse door, **** anatomy of a shark.
A hidden, naked cartoon, vulnerable and hurt.
The afternoon rays of light, exposing my empire of dirt.

Squid in a dark room, forgotten seat for you to ****.
Discovering rotten apples, the fruitless empty pits.
Far on the *****, the eye is negligent to mankind.
No on has *****, yet "American ****" isn't hard to find.

From this floor to the next, watch out for the holes.
Stalactites are forming, between the rods and the poles.
The gang is all here, each with a gat.
Questioning Detroit, wondering "where da party at."

A symphonic silence, from abandoned piano keys.
For the love of the city, the birds and the bees.
A ladder to assist you, in anything but a climb.
Wasting away the day, when all you have is time.

Where they once opted elevators, they now offer only stairs.
Peacefully residing, in the asbestos, grime, and the glares.
The walls they're all puking, a paint chip epidemic.
No chalk at the chalkboard, a failed academic.

Some sign walls in scribble, some bless us with art.
Beautiful light fixtures hang, while sanctuaries fall apart.
The debris and the rubble, wooden frames and the splinters.
A back road in the city, in the dead cold of winter.

An altar to stand at, with no sermon or expectation.
A pew a sinner can rest, with only God's examination.
A wall devoted to an *****, hymnal at hand.
Stained glass more exaggerated, with shards in the plan.

Dancing on floorboards in rafters, climbing up to rooftops.
Wandering and trespassing, trying to avoid cops.
Panda bears, pillar ****, and playing in the snow.
In the shadows and the blackest rooms, I really like to go.

Pussycats in hallways and the golden lightning kitty.
Posing seductively in vacancy is where I feel pretty.
I've seen the light at the end of the tunnel, I've found King David.
Interrogated with the whys and don'ts, though I wish they'd save it.

Picasso in the projects, Sloth and Marilyn Manson.
Fairmont Creamery Company, a view held for ransom.
Some window panes are for looking out, some for looking in.
Struggle Buggy Snow White still sleeps, forever strugglin'.

I've seen them ask for me, "Warriors come out to play."
Detroit is to me, what night is to day.
I caught Pikachu and have seen a **** elephant.
In the frost of the Fisher, I found a heart that was spent.

But the cardio made of brick, spoke with such sass.
Resting bones at the Packard, in an armchair that's trash.
Patriots are nosey and robots attack.
Never putting an hour on when I'll get back.

On top of the world, or looking up from the bottom.
Abandoned buildings, schools, churches, there's something about them.
Where a tree has a better chance of rooting and planting.
When a society suddenly seems a bit slanting.

Color a flower on a wall that's been broken and charred.
Breathe life into a battlefield, encourage the scarred.
Take away ego and vanity, glance into a filthy mirror.
Don't just listen to a person, actually hear.

Sure maybe at times I may seem a bit morbid.
And my words can be harsh and approach kind of forward.
But when you're standing alone, in a hallways that's dead.
Whose last bell has been rung and last book has been read.

Then you hear footsteps from the floor up above.
It's in that uncanny awareness.
And fear...
I find love.

She'll rattle your cage and get into your head.
Lioness on prowl to **** or be dead.
The jungle she's from is a book not yet read.
She's hungry and hunting won't sleep till she's fed.

Love is unimaginable, impossible at most.
When it's always grape jelly she puts on her toast.
As if the big bad wolf ever got his pig roast.
It's the infinite expectation pre marriage and post.

Facts are the advantage logic is key.
Accepting the nature of things left to be.
Horizons hold more than any eye can see.
To know ones self is to truly be free.

He tied the knot, but this wasn't done at the altar.
Hung himself out to dry, though he could never fault her.
Paraphrasing something so sacred doesn't keep you warm.
Teetering crooked floorboards, dictating the noose that's formed.
A deity could never die no matter how many times he hangs his head.
But you were never holy disappearing with the dead.

There was always light.
But they called her a black hole for a reason.
No one could fill it.
Drawn in to drown in her existence.
The constellation that mapped out your last adventure.
They only knew what they saw from a distance.
The plan but not the actual destination.
Home was never shelter, never a place.
It was acknowledging who you are.
And loving its entirety.
It's something you make for yourself.

Real is the empty promise.
It's the shadow of knowledge,
making contingent ideas for the nostalgic.
The intention, the purpose, the art of life..
Lost.

When you choose to settle for less than what you are.

The hoods go up, the bandanas come out.
Their day really starts, when the sun goes down.
Geared up with paint, backpacks are full.
Armed not only with colors, but triggers to pull.

No stops in the stairwell, it's straight to the top.
Hope you grabbed your inhaler, in case of the cops.
The last couple steps are slathered in ice.
Their will to go higher it really entices.

Reaching the rooftop, the flashlights go off.
But the rooftop itself just isn't enough.
Steel rails to trail, the water tower is their peak.
Their names and their tags, voices to speak.

So when the city looks up, from I-75.
Their beacon of art, is kissing the sky.

A possible proverb.
A lover's tradition.
Initialed and locked.
The key ammunition.
Said to be permanent.
For two love birds glue.
Symbolically secured.
Naturally construed.