For every hole I've punched in the wall, every piece of paper crumbled as we suffer in the bloodiest Fall, for every pulsating ego blistered into moon-ripe nosebleeds, I nurse these festering wounds and drop rose seeds, but grow an orchid garden, now the paint on your portait hardens, with a face that resorts to jargon, scribbled like a suicide note, like I'll stop, and show the beauty by profile shot. freeze., don't fret for the truth, cuz I prayed 'til I heard footsteps on the roof, I swear to God I don't believe in angels, ask me, Atheist, as she wears the wings in this relationship, passions have past me, cast another spell, mortified meloncholy madness to Michelle, suicide Sarah, alliterate your fate, worship the absence and demonstrate my faith, (when I glanced in the mirror of my bathroom door, I saw her dance in the rain of the Summer town wharf,) I saw her dance 'til the rain put the fire out, burned at the stake, Joan D' Arc, little anxious saint, I illustrate the gates of Hell into my notebook, her flesh burns up in the furnace, Ashes to Ashley's urn to something earnest, I slit my wrists in cursive, write a revelation, burn a stack of Bibles, question my faith, get my churlish ass to smile, find another subtle piece of confidence to muster, her ministry echos in this monolithic structure, cremate the dying Christmas tree, the winter, is full of bitter, ashy, black blizzards, so when the superstition delivered, and it came down the chimney, they found her in the fireplace with me. I feel like I'm half-dead. how many angels can you fit on a matchhead? count them, try to start a fire, do it, turn the volume down and write a sonnet to her movement
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