Like Wicker Passed Round Midnight’s Mass

I dare not blame the 14 Hands

for feelings I have felt

Where midnight and I meet

the moon’s shadow can’t dispel

In daylights saving grace

I justly feel that I have felt

like wicker passed round midnight’s mass

each hand is doleful dealt

When Butterflies Were Band-aids

Look me in my heartache

And tell me there’s a cure

When butterflies were band-aids

Where fact and fiction blur

Speak to me in virtues

The one’s I’m pickled for

When only field’s were diamonds

And playgrounds left you sore

Hold me in your sorrow

With hands so soft and pure

When bedtime meant tomorrow

Was absolutely sure

Hear me as the willows

Send shivers down your spine

When fluff was just for pillows

Where wonder’s in the pine

Sense me in my mourning

For those yet to be fed

When fear meant it was pouring

Where Rover was still red

Send prayers if you still got em

Though mine have long since fled

This well’s filled from the bottom

Where sailboats are led

What those lost do not say.

Remember me tomorrow

For who I was today

And understand my sorrow

Was never yours to save —

For everyone has reasons

The grieving call them brave

Who fought too many seasons

To end up in this grave

Still don’t mistake this sorrow

I’ve borrowed mine today —

Yet listen for tomorrow

What those lost do not say.

coffee

When Hemingway writes

coffee

but doesn’t really

write about coffee

I crave it

Taste it

I smell it’s sorrow

And pour a cup

As the morning becomes I

And I the morning’s passing

we shot to kill

It sucks

it’s burnt

it’s hard to swallow.

I chew the fat

then choke down

bile.

For now

mouthfuls

of blood and oil.

As I spit flesh

it stinks

of sorrow.

A few more bites

just choke

and swallow.

For what it’s worth

we shot to kill

and did.