become.

complimented on these-
the smallest of mercies
she stands aside
from the rabble,
the antagonists gone now but
not ever forgotten

all opinions considered
and prejudices aside,
we are separate from
the things that move us-
the very things we deemed
so worthy of warfare

no longer will hard-won victories
be treated as lullabies for
the un-baptised

she has notions in her eyes
so soothing at first
but increasingly toxic
as those who came before
dismay

moving forward,
marching towards this lovely isolation
so soft and insincere,
pale digits struggling to surface
and to become

inherit

she comes on like a sickness-
no forgiveness for the wicked
(entombed and pointing fingers)

the sound of this declaration lost
in the onslaught
she waits and is weightless
the breath that she takes is
one in a million

a million excuses leave my lips
but don’t attest to
the absence of sin

(a total distortion of that
which i know to be true)

reflection.

animus reflected-
retracted in daylight by
asking things of me
that seem
increasingly indecent
(at least in polite company)

and like a child
I stare and
ask questions of myself-
of both myselves

“When did this happen?”

a pause, a breath is
held close- clung to-
as if by exhaling,
it’ll doom us all…

and then, finally-

“It didn’t happen.
It always was.”

penance.

Penance paid for
lessons learned-
dusty distances ring true in
early morning monotones

Without a doubt
lost within a
withered moment -
there’s safe and then
there’s safer still

Torn apart by
these tiny acts of violence,
beyond compare
beyond reproach

Accused and yet compliant
saintly secrets burn softly-
ablaze with the passing
of hours

down.

Down to the letter-

fermenting angels
softly slaughtered

This room remembers
eyes like the morning after-
safer from a distance

Spiraled sideways
the seventh sinner sleeps forever
such a tale of misery

Unforseen and
urgent pleadings
ancient in my hands and
fading

she’s got

she has conundrum hands like
little kittens
she’s soft and she’s hard
and she’s got nails like a cross.

she brings out the red in me.

ten.

ten letters on your tongue
your breath swift and your
hands always so

old scores settle with
the dust- so thick
on sleeping books

words and letters

a letter to my two lovers-
soft shadowed syllables
hushed and hurried in
my fretful hand.

telling.

I’m sorry to be the one
to have to tell you this-
I’m sorry to have to
tell you this way,
but there’s no other option
really,
nothing more we
can say or do.

You’ve just witnessed
your first death-
How do you feel?

bloom.

the solemn bloom of lying lips
soft seventeens so soothing in the
aftermath of the fake creator
everything is taken

sliding fatal into
water when the light flickers
so thickly
we are constant
we are structured
we are damned