nightmares linger.

you call me a poet // i call it vocal sin.

speak(ing) of the devil, he rides the train

past heaven, licks his lips and pulls in

humanity's station - there i'm waiting,

for him. there's a numbing in my bones

i've yet to know // watch the fish ripple

through my veins; still, there's no name

for my condition.

pre-paid tragedy // not made for loving.

the devil draws his head back to laugh,

my sweatt drips down the suitcase -

blood red - in my hands. weathered skin

crushed against expectation, raising my arms

to show him // the devil hisses, said

rewriting stars is a dreadful art, leaves you with

half finished hearts. i would claim the devil

a cruel man - if only, he had no truth to him.