Stop imagining sunsets.
Walk into a world
of cobwebbed windows.
Glass smashed by broken promises
and blood stained cherubs.
Hear the sound of piercing thorns,
stockinged feet shuffling
across greasy boards
and tacky linoleum.
Wake to hot breath that stinks
of panting. The burn of pinioned arms.
Words that strive but die for air.
A swimmer, too deep to see clearly
the sea blue blur of a fragmented world,
Lungs burn in ascent. Face the wall
better to stay beneath the fear of divers bends.
The weight will shift.
The shame will ease
and the disease of craving will depart
on cloven feet.
Stay quiet and pray that endings last.