Patient, waiting
for the strike of day to strike midnight-

sleep has been much colder lately,
with the window open to let the night in;

your heart
is lost
in
each
sad
story
sold
.

Senselessly alive
are the phrases of things you are surrounded by-

no phasing it out now, Mother Mary,
as you place the dot on the end of this sentence;

your voice
is quieter
with
each
breath
you
take
.

Reluctant, delayed
stillness on the string used to hang your fire-

sleep is not useful any more,
it just further tires your design;

you know
the rich
are
safer
beside
the
rich
.


Dangerous, dire
glitter on your enchantment decreases in pieces-

and your sneezes make wind,
but Mother Mary, you've become lost in the history books again;

lost among
the stories
violently
and
blindly
untold,
dissolved.

09/20/2007