Day old coffee,
the ceramic skin heats my fingers
my purposeful exhale expels
literature of a spector
who departs in a rush of cowardice,
under the guise of pride
and hidden gluttony.
and hidden gluttony.
It is beyond me.
Coffee goes down easy,
there's June wind on my feet
and I singing to myself
about the running Blue.
The master mind is now a war machine
I see Heaven and Hell and lightening.
Thoughts grinding forward
like a juggernaut
and my soul turns to iron.
I am craving river water
to sweep me away from the day.
The bombs have fallen and I sit pretty
in the frames of a demolished city;
forgiveness is only hard
when it means something.
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