death's stood in the doorway
but i'm no good with words
so my pleas for mercy
come in the form of
fresh bandages on old wounds
and plastering my vices on greeting cards
though the reaper argues
that if there was any value
in a butterfly whose wings
are pinned to a corkboard
or a soul with one foot in the grave
and the other being fed to wolves
he'd carry his mercy in spades
You’re a memory I’m thankful to have,
but a mistake I wouldn’t dare make again.
You’re the movie tickets pinned to my corkboard,
and the poems scribbled in the corners of my notebook.
You’re the songs I listen to on repeat because they remind me of you
and the feelings you once made bubble to the surface of my naive heart.
I miss the sky of days gone by
before the roar of aerosol sprays,
electronic noise from power arrays,
when trust was met in a stranger's eye.
If the stars disappeared, would I notice?
Our arrogant glare dispels the divine
shredding our trail with stinking decline
in our dark corner of the cosmos.
It's clear we're been pinned to the corkboard
to mercifully sequester our vice
from enlightened star travelers seeking
the light within every random core.
Someday I will mine my loving shine,
spirit and energy shall combine
when I ask why the breath of your sigh
hastens the pace of verve's alibi.
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