The pain settled
in the marrow of her bones
like termites feeding on timber.
The pain battled
with the beautiful thoughts of her mind
like a prize-fighter pinned against the ropes.
The pain dragged
her youth and her innocence

and tossed her off a twelve story parking garage.

The grief stole
the satisfaction of life from his control
like a gust of wind upon candlelight.
The grief fogged
the gleam of hope in his eyes
like factory steam blots out the stars.
The grief shackled
his energy and his spirit

and bound him to a hospital bed.

...why couldn't they find a hand to hold?

I smoke every cigarette in the pack
long enough that the filters melted
and my lips blacken
like the nightsky,
when you stepped down
the granite staircase
in a burgundy bouclé dress
that radiated brighter than
the chandelier overhead.

All we ever had was enough.
Now I smoke to remember
the nights when the fog
followed us home
and the music of us
slow dancing in silence.

I pack my bags
and I leave my keys at your door.
You hold me close and you whisper:

*"What the hell are you waiting for?"

Look! The clouds
that blot out your mind-light
are advancing
like a thousand arrows
released from a thousand bows.

It might rain today.
Did you bring your umbrella?
You give thanks to the rain,
but you curse the downpour.

But the faster rain falls,
the sooner the sun breaks free,
right? Right?

It's like your first time
smoking **** as the smoke
floats across the black light
like a whispered prayer
to God
or a damnation
to Satan.

That startling paranoia,
with that tinge of euphoria.

It's what keeps your hands trembling.

"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings"*

Here stands a city,
stretching as far as
the east is from the west.
Dark and deep is the night
on the streets lined
with desolate lamp posts
which once ago held
light
to those who walked
to a place they called
home.

The moon beams
pierce apathetic clouds
and cast a milky
gleam
onto a decaying brick wall
overspread with faded Krylon.

Situated next to a broken
window
upon the crumbling clay and mortar
is scrawled a message:

"Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"

A shattered visage lies
cold and numb.
A man once dominant and
inspiring
now is decomposing
in the ratways of his once
gleaming
empire.

The spray paint can rolls
from upon his fingertips
and his faint whisper
is as fleeting as a
morning breeze.

"That's not what
I meant at all.  That's
not what I meant
at all. that's not
what i meant at all
thats not
what i meant at
all what i meant
not at all..."

The wind erupts -
you've frozen up
and curse the Cold North
with outstretched arms to the sky.

Oh, how I straightened my tie
and left the warmth of the South
to find your eyes, full of doubt,
staring into themselves through reflections.

"Let go," I say.  "Come inside."

Through all folly
and all anger,
you're frightened here.

You yell:
"How can I start again?
It's all a dream to me now.
Inside is cold, too.
I cannot let go."

Goodbye is inadequate,
but how can we say enough?

So you depart,
I watch you set off.
You sail on rivers,
you float on seas.

I'll be the light in the fog
if you decide to row home.

My father was a bayonet.
My mother was gunpowder.
I was born
as a bullet fired from its chamber
aimed at the enemy's heart.

Cautious eyes never see
my burning hands before I
rip them apart
for I do not know what I am doing.
Agressive fists swing
toward my barbed wire skin,
but even the luckiest hands
lose their fingers.

I am not a time bomb
set to explode;
rather, I am shrapnel
from my bayonet father
and my gunpowder mother.

So, if you get too close
expect a fallout
and listen for my voice
in the reverberation:

*I do not know what I am doing.