Cultural Graveyard

The roiling masses

scoop ashes of yesterday

into purses of gold,

as they crawl through fog

unaware of its caustic fumes.

 

The scent of lavender

and a glint of emerald light

sneak out from cracked-stone monuments

to dead and misplaced dreams.

 

In the distance

A low wail begins.

 

3-21-19

 

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How it Ends for Me

A small

rip,

then a little

tear,

and then another,

and the next thing I know

shredded

bits

go flying through

the air,

like a blizzard

of blood

kicking up ragged bits

of my obliterated

heart.

 

There is something

almost magical

in the

horror

and the beauty

of the remnants of my soul

as they lazily drift

to the ground

in sharply defined

stillness,

one so still,

even Echo herself

has fled.

 

The screams are gone now,

as are the tears;

I can find no more

inside me,

just a hazy maroon

sunset

of blood in light

fading into the darkness,

and the smell of

rot.

6-14-18

The Torrent

A slow drip

at first,

and the groan

of bending

steel.

 

The drip becomes

a stream,

and the stream becomes

a river,

then the sound of tearing

metal

slices through me.

 

A crash,

and a torrent

of the washed up

dreams

and the shattered

stained-glass

walls

of my own broken

psyche

pour out

onto the street.

 

They slide into the gutter

and slip down

below,

with all the other

refuse.

4-25-18

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