Sunday, February 23, 2014

suicide weather

static hands and
blood of christ

water in the basement

mold in the walls

no poetry just

just small acts of
violence strung together
with rusted wire

call it a life and then
you have to live it

have to spend your days
looking through cracked and
warped panes of glass

have to wait for a sun that
never shows itself

and will you crawl like a
dog for the people you
love, and would love even
be the right word here?

how strong can any faith
be when it’s built on the
corpse of a tortured and
murdered innocent man?

empty laughter is as
good an answer
as any

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