Funeral rites
by soft lamp lights
in the early evenings
of the dying summer.
the cold approaches
with the last fireflies
of the fleeting year.
The finger hold
on this flip-book life
tapers toward the edges
speeding the flow of time.
we progress from drop of molasses
to a grease fire.
out of control thoughts
contained in caved in hands
holding my cranium together
like a G.I. holding a foot to the promise of a landmine
with no friends to recover the glory
its just you all over the room.
collecting yourself would be a life long effort
The easy way
is to fill your mouth
with cement and shut the fuck up
when you constantly trample over sleeping bodies
like speed bumps you do off your car dash
before your soul vacates the passenger seat
and leaves you in a pile of your own imploding heart.
I would be angry at the cards i was dealt
if i gave a fuck about winning the game
but I just sit back
and watch everyone go for the throat
leaving a mess
I wont have to clean up.
Theres never any blood or shit on my hands
just lead from rewritten destiny.
R.I.P Dad.
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