Untitled
There is a profit from the dying;
The scattered dreams of doleful eyes.
There is a suit that holds a man that holds a check
For the expenses of lament.
There is one that drifts awake with a fist
Of war and joy.
It tears through paper and steel
Iron and mist
Gulping the words of every fairy tale
Recited by the unknown soldier.
The dept is the air in na�¯ve lungs
Provide by trees that fear the sharp edge of glass houses.
A lifetime was a promise given by an adjusted God.
The room moves to fit the space and gently it appeases.
Later there is a sob in a smoke filled room
A street saturated with necks and knees
Gleefully evolving to the lowered ceiling.
There is no child of God.
There are no lies.
There is only a living Hell we deem as yesterday.
