Plots

Wilting petals bury souls
In gardens filled with bones
Weeping children sing along
To preachers songs of right and wrong
Of those meat suits in boxes, plotted six feet under
In the land of natives our graves have torn asunder
Their dreams combine with ours and theirs
Of tarantulas and trolls
Of firebrands and Hawaiian sweet rolls
Of sticky notes and blood soaked stains
Of busy ports of planes and trains
Of murdering rhythm and raping rhyme
To halt the movement of time – to the site returned
Flowers left for dead
Stone monuments based on budgets
Declaring dates of beginnings and endings
Missing the middle: life lived

Imps

They come to dwell and burrow within the confines of my mind

to pull at things and tear apart the pieces that they find.

would they could but cease to be
and take with them the darkness deep in me

whose silence whispers evilly and binds

impish voices clearly not divine