the wedding wrings

worry their arrival

they are not yet come

not even thought to

go forth to depart

from a heaven full

of wandering


yet i am to ready

the hall in a cloud

of flowers

the thief wings black

in the shadows behind



a golden chalice on the floor

filled with piss

i shoot at a slant

my bones are printed on

the ink of age and a waterfall

of popping haunts



i pray

i will be more

wither the hair on my head

parch the paper of my body

but don’t take me

a box of dust before

the saints


by Justin B Davis


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