This is a Sunday evening letter
proses pulling at me from canyons and rooftops.
I could use a glass of wine,
as belladonna and lilies
spill across my floor.
All I can do is doing fine.
I've paced our footsteps restless,
the things we've spoken without a sound.
You make me fly into the ocean
And swim within the foggy air,
lift me through the wreckage
and brush off the despair.
The blade's gone deeper
than I've ever push before.
Muted angels look down in scorn
at the sinner ways I cope,
my tragic flaws make me stronger
and there is always hope.
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