12.
i don’t speak about the dead
though, god rest their souls
the memories i hold
die at your casket’s side
in a rush to get out of here
but you don’t even know
where the hell are you going?
taking life so slow
adrenaline junkie
bringing the rainfall
feeling what you warmed
how everyone you see
is who you made them to be
right before the devil
took your scenes away
like leeches
with the stroke of your blood
painting the roses red
the wand you gifted
the pearls you purchased
the flowers you grew
now, using you
playing with your death
like water colors on paper
an art form for the weak
but clever none the less
the thieves, the crooks
the liars, the cheats
they robbed you blind
took the rubies if they could
the artist and the muse
what will never be
isn’t that how the pope died?
cowardice queens
like scorpions on the throne
your brains and beauty
bottled in basements
the most unholy
sacrificial pilgrimage
they got what they wanted
they got nothing at all
to have and to hold
the sticks and stones
from flesh to burial bones
dark clouds coming in
here we are again
serial smile
the sun and the moon
where rain meets sky
nothing lies