some never see any lights

    All in all December, has the kids with paper in their ice cream cones,
the list of dull saturated head-aches, while circles bend news.
    The town in which hunger drips from eyes that kneed the last remnants
for to spoil the lamb on the short, brass weighted crucifix.
    Vision water more than the bitter leaves in which hope takes one last ghost,
all is a trick for the un-bandaged ravel looking high up into the soot filled lip.
    For one long season till one hand held out to ice cold cutting tears
that whail louder than the goddamn sickly shed door.
    In
        Just
                one
                      final
                            picture
                                        in a book never  i
                                                                  m
                                                                  a
                                                                  g
                                                                  i
                                                                n
                                                                e d
                                    by the greedy.