As a djinn let loose from the scarfed glass,
a flaming bouquet abloom from gas.
Maybe mercy, after all,
is to be dead, like the moon,
unfeeling to one’s freefall
and the cold night—needful boon
to not feel the creeping rot
as it eats your pockmarked face
while the hollowed heart feels not
the cold void of lifeless space.
Yes, the dead may be at peace
like the moon chained to earth’s side—
the living long for release
while tears swell at high tide.
So often they dig
into the bedrock of their beliefs,
seeking iron ore to smelt
with the forge of their anger
so as to enumerate swords and arrowheads
with which to conquer in the name
of their faith,
only to undermine the very foundation of
A new book of rhymes I have written over the last year. Over 99 rhymes, to be precise (and over 150 to be more precise).
perched atop the cathedral,
a heart of cold stone.