Gray Lines

Just six little worlds
and seven sins...

The last note of holy bells leading you away from home
you spoke to me in whispers
in your own secret mother tongue:


"Everything I touch turns to poetry!"

And smoked out summers
like candle wax
I was the moth and you the flame


Four little words:


"Don't you love me?"


But isn't it like you've always dreamed?

The epitaph they gave you
wasn't what you deserved

The standard-edition-gold-plated-lettering
spelling out an all-too-comforting message
of hope and peace on polished limestone:

"God have mercy; amen"

Seven deadly words:

"I love you. Don't you love me?"

The crows come with the coming of autumn
you always said
that you wanted to be buryed on the outskirts
of eternity
so you could look in on the rest of us
from time to time

In a chilling realization...

The kind of person
who would play the lottery
and believe they could win

"Win what?"

Like you weren't familliar with the term.

What is money? What is greed?

So many questions;
I hadn't time to answer then...


You'd seen it in your teacup
laced with white powder -
one for delusions,
one for your dreams,
one for the girl behind the curtain,
(What is it she's waiting for?)
one for the music,
(you wish everyone could hear)
another for that gleam in your eye,
one for obsession,
and one for prophecy...

"What do you see?"

"Fate."

A deadly combination.


Piano keys and daisy chains...


It could have been anyone's grave
but it wasn't;
it was yours

"I'm sorry."


Shhh...