Entombed on the outskirts
of hero township
sits a once Arcadian jewel
turned relic

its vast wings spread
as an eagle
but the days of flight
long exhausted

sullen close-down signs and banners
hang minatory from
a fractured glass ceiling
-- a terminal remainder

spots of rain fall thru strewn wreckage
along the counters of a fossilized department store

inchworms journey down
the massive teeth of a frozen
escalator descended from
the empty heavens

creepy crawlers move about
remnants of a food court
in search of morsels

like the droves of
holiday shoppers
that once haunted this place

before betraying it
for the shiny new toy
across the highway

he wrote that:

when she write her poems
she published the fire within my bones

she killed me, with her thrones
when she was fighting the life, with her tones

I lived there, between the groans
when she knew, how to bloom the stones

when she write her poems
I have to try to withheld my moans

I will drag your predation  to mine
to mix it and prepare it as a perfect wine.
I will not leave your line
until I make sure that our gloom is fine.
trust this dust-path and this shrine
of our love that will always mar the sunshine.

I ripped my heart out
then put it on your silver platter
and all you can say is
“ I’ll text you later .”