Death may come in blackness

or that purging wall of fire

in the breaths between the

markers, on some blood

marked highway mile.

-

In the trenches and the black rain

lying there with shotgun shells

stuffed beneath your pillow, you'll say:

so hold me now, 'cause Death

is coming. Help is here.

-

Little child, you know the end;

she has no heart - she will kill

you in the sunshine, or happily

in the dark.

-

Because kindness is brain-dead

by shrapnel, or the world

to numb the bones; a bullet

atop that mud-stained bed

and swigs of whiskey to

bring you home.

-

By the contentment of the

press-man, everyone is worthless,

made by the dried clay of

calloused hands; so touch me

now, 'cause Death is coming.

Help is already here.

-

See the soil made sterile

by gun-shot remedies

where all the boys should wear

their halos, and make peace

with their sins and bliss.

-

Hollow raindrops and scraps

of fire bring frozen tears

to a blood-shot face

wake up, now, and smell the

sweet honeysuckles of decay.

-

By the sirens come a-blazing,

everyone is numbed, made by

worthlessness come chugging

down the tracks of time; so

find me now, 'cause Death is

coming. Help has been here.

-

Leaving this place, with nothing

but thoughts for company

it took you in your hands,

choked around your neck

and in a brief second of misery

it thanked me;

-

It dodged every angels' eye,

each circling arrow and second chance

and settled in foreign grains of sand

where all the other bottles danced.