I always found the
taste of Heaven stale,
like coffee three days old.
I prefer to spend my nights
in graveyards with ghosts,
in the company of stone angels
and cemetery cats
whispering my secrets to the dead.
The setting sun casts
dying fingers of soft orange light
through rusting iron gates,
lobbing sharp, offensive shadows
across these cold granite faces.
Above, an unkindness of ravens
caw their unspeakable truth.
Of late, I have been known
to sing with them.
My darkness is a sanctuary,
my voice a broken prayer.
My hope deeply planted
in this field of shattered bones
awaiting a resurrection
that shall never come.
Here among the sleeping dead
I have lain down many times,
and in the stillness of the night
have heard my death composed.
The Winter Bites My Bones
Standing all alone amongst the howling winds,
I count my sins and shiver, shiver, shiver
Icy cold reflections freeze me to the spot
No longer will I find warmth in my denials
Numb and quaking, I huddle amongst the fallen leaves
And like them, slowly decay and fade away.
The winter bites my bones
Chewing my frozen flesh with teeth of sharp icicles
Darkness descends and I am numbingly consumed.
The frozen ground will not receive me
Shallow breathes hang before me, vapored and still
Muscles aching from too much holding on
As the winter bites my bones.