You shared
one moment - wasted in dire midnight!
Then retold the sworn repose
in a fit of florid detail
and fateful Tuesday mourners.
There is no hedonistic praise, no latent permission
nor is there a rebounding energy to latex
your pain in a swatch of bliss-less ignorance
there is just the next week.
A file to be reborn
to be written down as sacraments,
the new words fall with a smirking dilemma.
Until the pen fades, washed by Vodka shots
and whispered, sniping harpies who's reality
is to see their pain in your life.
Then, when the road's sodden,
you wilt like a clay child
that holds out his heart,
open palmed, to his mourning mother
as she hears the sins
of scented silence.
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