Avoué une bouchée béante

The crisp air floods the lungs humid from the deep of abyss that fixes an anchor on the edge of nerves never calmed.

Heavy debt bellows over and over as the tears we water ourselves back to life with steep on the window sills we leave them on as we try our best to feel safe.

Hunger artists raise the questions that only take the meat that is barely clings to out rib cages.

Fine tuned afternoons lost the haze, and fog of good intentions never seeing the light of day as exhaustion screams from joints to over worked to snore.

My life in an upturned boat clinging to consciousness so to speak as the hypothermic feelings come on strong, as the ocean moves us along.

In familiar places again, the scenes of the crime.

Watching the many scenes play out like silver china on display through generations.

The funeral conductor watches us from the balcony in the theater of the catacombs of our minds.

Separating through the daisy chains, dirt, and confetti we're still looking for our encore romanticizing the atrocity exhibitionists we have become looking for support groups that circle around but never lifting the soul.

Radio hisses on end.

Roses wilt on the open grave.

Ruptured arterial stains dry, and fade.

Rolling thunder.

You promised you'd lay flowers on my grave.