suicide weather

static hands and

blood of christ

water in the basement

mold in the walls

no poetry just

             regret

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