We sugarcoat the fragile
with undercover lies,
longing for trust
and life's eternal rise,
in sin lived,
in virtue dying,
crimson angels
making voices
in death's way
to paradise,
crying,
but we save ourselves
in the end.

8 42

Late February soul,
why so hollow
and away from home?
No tenderness
but shadows
in a face barely touched
by time's intimacy,
sitting before
an open mic,
life elsewhere
without imagination's
necessities,
there yet dead
in spirit.

15 64

You know,
bourbon eyes
and cigar lips
burn
memories
somewhere,
in stitched smile
and jagged breath,
tin pan stars
falling like rain
over summery death,
last goodbyes
lost in tearful song,
unholy man's
sunrise
valued in wrongs,
1/2

4 23