I’m alone, with smoke and bottles.
With an itch around my neck,
my feet kicks off the bench.
Surrounded by darkness,
a figure has come to jest.
“Did you do your best?”
I try to shake my head “No.”
I look at him whilst my feet kick, longing for the ground.
Lighter by the second,
I silently scream, “No. No. No.”
With knowing eyes,
the angel sighed,
raised his scythe, ready to chastise.
Although red, my eyes see the light.
But wait, this doesn’t feel right.
Mr. Reaper had nothing to do with me tonight.
My back felt the cold of the floor.
I’m dying no more.
The ancient one cut my rope.
“Don’t.” he says to me.
“Promise me, try to live.”
But I see him nightly.
There she stands,
An angel with broken hands,
An angel with stones for wings,
She sings the sun away
And spins timorous sky ashade
Of wonder, thunder row'n’ down
Her body, she sang of me
As I died asleep
Another night, my eyes too worn to cry,
Too alone for an expression of lonliness
To bare any meaning.
The sapphire trail
Skylark doled to drain
The riverrun grass of
Lifted in hypoxic transcendence
Glistening with light, ****** gold,
Skin to lilt, and touch to felt
And dawn rotted unto morning
With one less life having made it.
— The End —