is there a point...
a spot to tear limbs
preforations or lines chalked
pinned to a cut pattern
wear someone else
not me of course tries
to dress the mess
I have blessed myself with
is there a point of no return
an event horizon
where all the locks
stay as such
without too much fuss
except the rust that forms
a pretty patina
and an easy excuse
to champion
what I have failed to deliver
in the hurricanes of lies
that seem wise at the time
but only furthers the fat
that eats the molecules
I ride into oblivion
love knows what grows
in the dark
and I eye more than a spark
to burn it all
to the ground
another hole to fill
another spade turned
towards midnight chilled
calling what has spilled
as another reason
faith has no real way to die
has no way to reel
the light back
to my eyes
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