in a hot, rude, black shod silver kiln
where a heart has been truly broken,
inferior and ventricular,
the first bars of that September song strike open
a sudden reality of December too soon
I cannot lead the cheer for the assassins bleed
but ask they lay their blades at rest until
the closing breath has fled
cracking blackening tendrils are ready grown
along the wires on the map of underpinned organs
and split my rolling eyes
yes I see rocks and scraped dirt
under that angular peninsular of steel and glass
not as valedictory obituary
but shallow graves awaiting the pretty little girls
their sub-strated gate to immortal perfection
eternal smiles of bottled youth masking
a ghastly grimaced truth yet they remain, forever, so beautiful
while I have missed my chance and will just fade
in a grey scale buried between the help wanted
and used cars
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