Dead birds of incensed words,

gutless flesh of decayed sores,

prostrate on ground, buried

in bitter leaves, wet with sorrow,

unable to escape into fresh air -

broken angled wings lingering

as I try to forgive your lapses,

but the birds remain lifeless

and fallow on the ground,

words ingrained into my soul.

A great mercy, like a dormant seed,

planted in each heart

biding until its appointed springtime

though innumerable springs

come and go and are endured

beyond enduring,

as such things must be

if we are not to be immolated

in the heat of ourselves

and our accounting,

is pulled like a great anchor

up into the mouth

through the ascending throat

to rest like a gift upon the tongue,

to betray the confounding

malediction of Babel's fall,

to prove, with however much

difficulty

that the most beautiful words

in any language

are,

I forgive.

I want to end you

the way you tore into my heart

delivered me from happiness

and drowned me in my sorrow.

Do you not realize

the way your smile rocked my world

the scent of your breath

intermingling with mine--

plagued with deception

killing me softly.

So little time I have

to stare at your face

the way you force a smile at me

and smother out the ashes of you cigarette;

smother out the ashes of my heart.

We're not church people,

you and I,

and I must bite my thumb at you,

Satan, Beelzebub,

tainting my mind with your sweet nothings

and promises of sanctuary

when all I must do is breath. Relax. Repeat.

Take care, lost boy.

©SelfTitled, 2017