Could you catch her as she fell headlong
for the concrete breaking
bones of every shape
and size
and psychodelic shade?

Would she run through fingers like sand
or water or salt
or the God you were hoping for-
Heaven you sought-
divine you wished to dine upon?

Would you want her
bruised and beaten by demons that drain
through her mind like rum on the rocks
like sweat on your brow
like the sting of a gash in your forethought-

Love her?
That misshapen face of all spades?
That cold and that empty pretending Messiah,
devoid-of-all-light sort of figure
to cradle as she wails all through the sunset?

Could your hands be the breathe
that force her to live?

       In
             Out




In.

01/04/2005

Posted on 01/05/2005
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