He met his moment

of defeat

with a quick stare

of disbelief

as the ghosts slowly

gathered at his grave

they welcome him there

with nothing to share

only to witness his transition

behold the ferryman with

a blood red bang

and so his fate was sealed

he lost his head

and now he’s dead

yet thanks

you for

your solemn

disposition

to be the one who died alone

upon the salt wood of an old and rotting whiskey bar

to be the black haired phantom

with obsidian eyes

swift and sober at the

mark of midnight

watch the ladies of the night

wear lilac white and scream beautiful obscenities

watch gamblers stumble home

to suicide

covering moth infested

memories of bankruptcy

with a mouth full of iron

to be the one who

met the devil there

only to outshine him

with a side eye of disgust

the path to wisdom

a slow mile run

All of the madness

stopped for a moment

on the tip of a paper

thin dime

and the earth shifted

from blue to

ink jet black

and the truth

raised above

the vast horizon

like a lion

over the blood red

sky of the Serengeti

while widows weep by the old Saint Francis a procession of dark drags in red lipstick kick up the dust from Katrina

powdering their twisted faces with narcolepsy and narcotics

laced viagra and voodoo

inside there is a silent hum

of hallelujah and warm bread

stacked in cold cardboard boxes

stained glass and suicide

the pity alters the ions in the air as

the thick fingers of the priest

pull at his collar as he prays

silently and struggles to breathe

choking on the thick hypocrisy

in the hot Louisiana air

the line will end at the red string

and all of the marchers will fall

like the fools they are

and the widows will fix

another seat for the wounded

at the old Saint Francis on State street

Today I washed

gods mouth out

of all the words

he spat

and the blood

poured down

the drain

with chrome

and fang

to corrode the

ocean depth

molecules hold madness

memories hold regret

the depth of space

holds moments

that I wish

I could forget

the widow

raven

with its

crooked claw

perched tight

on rotted wood

turned its eye

to the

sparrow

time

and dove

straight into

the moon

Mirrors are made

of liquid

these portals to

the truth

find your eyes

and tell no lies

your reflection

bends the root

And there I stood silent

in a vast empty field

with the East wind

flowing steady

against my brow

And there I

swallowed memories

of past horizons

every emotion

illuminated by the sky

in teal blues

emerald greens

And there I heard

your voice

echoing gently

on the skin

of the black sea

whispering

eternity

to the lost

believer within

A little bit

closer now

hands clasped

frozen

fate

fixed

forward

to ward death

bent to anchor

this new muse

not yet ripened

by age

just a little pin

prick on

a pulsating vein

a mimicking God

flaunting suicide

someone somewhere

thrown blind

into the

deep black abyss

expanding the spores

of pain

these

remaining days

filled with

abstract radio waves

and long dead

pixels of

ghosts

these remaining days

standing fearless

on the heels

of the

devils

hooves

Prosers:

(finish this with one stanza in the comments)

I purchased some

thumb tacks today

to hang

my fractions

of time

Attached by

thick red

string

and blood

soaked

cadmium

Inspired by

true crime

and Goya

Raygun

snapshots of

this life

deconstructed

and dismantled

until the victims

all look the same

a collage of

emotional

Man Ray

a psychological

mural of

Monet

Some of my

closest friends

are demons

They give

terrible advice

and keep me

up all night

talking about

serial killers

and addiction

Just enough to

distract me

Just enough to

make me forget

that I am dead

In the murky depths of our modern existence lies a cauldron of toxicity, simmering with the noxious vapors of deceit, greed, and disillusionment. The air is thick with the acrid stench of political discord, where truth is a casualty and integrity a relic of a bygone era. Society churns in the turbulent waters of technological advancement, drowning in a deluge of information, yet starving for genuine connection. In this suffocating atmosphere, human empathy wanes, replaced by a callous indifference, leaving souls adrift in a sea of isolation. This is the toxic soup we’ve brewed, a bitter concoction of our own making, where the once-clear waters of morality have become clouded by the sediment of our collective discomfort and relentless pursuit of greed for survival.

In the face of such a tempest, one can only hold fast to the fragile hope that amidst the chaos, a glimmer of redemption may yet emerge. And as the pendulum of power swings with reckless abandon, one cannot help but wonder: who will emerge victorious in the political arena, Only time will tell, as the electorate braces itself for another round of the age-old dance between hope and disillusionment.

I do not wish for seconds.