Title: The Cage of Happenings
Author: Heather P.

Junkyard saints,
that are all fitted with collars,
to let us know who they belong to.

Round the miracle dance,
to spin like children,
and to always dream,
of something that,
never ends.

Super glue my heart back,
after its been torn apart.

Where a stiff necked collar high,
like a strangle hold formed in gold,
curls around my spiritual thoughts.

Wake,
Wake,
Wake up,

Silly.

It's show time.
A strange sort of coffee pot.

Watch the blood, dead, and dying,
where I am lying around ,
with bolts and screws loose

Angels pack the halls for the,
show of wounded faith,
moving to fake dances of life.

I'll be watching among them and,
please look up and give me,
the pleasure of seeing. . .

. . . your last breath.

So full of folly and disease,
that is what you get, I guess,
for fooling around with me.