In Winnipeg
they dig the winter graves
in autumn
before the sun sleeps
and the ground freezes.

They guess the number
of holes to dig.
They respect the cold
and the winter dead.

Death prediction
is a fine art
in Winnipeg.  


© M.L.Emmett

The earthquake in a dream is coming,
It's coming,
It's coming.
It clashes with real life,
It clashes,
It clashes.
It wakes me up,
It wakes me,
It wakes me.
The door is open,
It's open,
It's open.
Someone is there.
It's only Brook.
It's time to wake up,
It's time to get ready.
Soon I'll go to school.
"Did you notice that earthquake?"
Asked Brook.
"Yep."

Repulsive and cruel,
Laying with an arm round me
An arm that is literally spitting
False phrases one moment
as though I'm the king of the jews.

god is dead.
and my entire life you
will always be a piece of
the shattered boy

the one who used to daydream
of stories only told by hopeless cries.​
problem is you cannot hear the weeping
in their words that stream out their fragile hands.

Now spitting ugly and hurtful language,
That just tears me up,
And once you step out the doorway,
The saline filled liquid starts.

I'm trying to distance myself,
But how do I manage that?
How many more lies can you narrate
while you keep my loving heart?

Do you really think I don't recognize
and your love will bring me anything?​
After all I have suffered.​
How many more painful days

I simply wanted your dreams forever
but apparently my life isn't anything
certainly unworthy of admiration,
or unconditional love.