Riddled at once full of
the words your world once
hung from, these ripples,
death rattles, and dumb
ricochets enter these dusty
halls where imaginary repartee
echoes, rot and ruin endure
fresh hells and blooming
bruises, Pandora’s Box
spilling from the trash can,
the litany of all that is no
longer, catching the short
end of the sentience.
A stone, a food cart,
a big box full of rocks.
The smoke on my lips
touching the whisky of
your kiss, a room stuffed
with want and heat,
the flavor of a lie savored
long after all the truth was gone.