the sun cannot make it thru these windows stained w/winter.

i see tears on the front door and it will all be a letter that sounds sweet when it's read by a voice that sounds better than mine as i rewrite the poems that you burned when you left me alone in this air that i breathe and perfume scars you sent down my spine when you took away your shadow--

i'm stoned at your funeral

it's too late for me to see the way you would have smiled when i kissed your coffin goodbye and sat by your grave for what must have been days until the rain left me colder than before and there was no hope for me anymore just songs w/out words that sounded like dreams and don't acknowledge the laughter that you've taken from me and bottled up pain that sits on the counter leaking slowly like mud thru the strongest pair of hands and along with the other things i'm not meant to understand is why that noose still hangs dangling from such a beautiful tree and why there was no room in that rope for one more tragedy so that i may find this tradition arousing when i grab my throat as i hang in the air and smile at all of you....so completely aware.