Reaper Robes

I met her, right outside the nine-year gates
with raggedy scraggle hair ropes
and misled eyes. I ran foolishly, the way a child would, straight
into her pother

black robes. She wrapped her presence around me.
Her absent face smiled down, impishly, at me
somehow.
In shadow?
Or
in old memories, perhaps?
I knew her!

Her face captured mine, she sucked
naivety, pore after pore bled dry!
She held on to my, now, advanced young spirit and
led me
to his casket; to his
statue.

Before his lifeless image
ink-smeared my tender life, his
hollowness entombed it!

After that day,
The Reaper and I parted ways,
still her black robes never left.

I ate them at an empty table,
they walked me down a long, long aisle, silk tied,
for a replacement man.
They draped dark weight across my house plants,
my pastries,
my daffodils,
my sex,
my love.

Until one day, The Reaper appeared,
with a hand outstretched
to me. Her calculating movements told me
who! Not when, but who!
I ran foolishly, the way a scared betrothed would,

leaving my plants,
leaving my home,
leaving my LOVE,

away,
away,
away,

to the borders of life, I ran,
back turned on The Repear’s
robes, though they never
turned on me.

The robes….
those consistent black robes,
always carried consistent weight,
never dulling, fraying, or fleeing

just steady, unwavering

take
take,
taking.

Red Rain

Red rain pounding
glass, screeching.

Red wind
screaming with her,
muffling,
burning
red blood lips.

Red man, red
flesh hammer
ready.

Heart sounds
cracking,
red egg,
undead.
Pretty red-head
swelling.

Red rain thrashing,
glass scratching
red lungs,
junkie,
red man.

Red veins try
running
away,
dirty death streets,
stiff beds
under
red beer signs.

Sweet red eyes,
pouring catastrophe,
straight shots,
her
black out

while red man
chases
his dirty veins
through
six, endless, red feet.

Her, swollen
red egg,
bottled up in vinegar
and
a dirty,
red season,

left alone
with

her blue face,
drizzling
hints
of
of a red, red, rain.

Who Is The Empty One

The baby’s swing
swinging emptily
swinging next to me

blankly
watching the empty
swing –
back and forth
swinging steadily

the baby’s swing
swinging melodically
listening lethargically
as it swings next to me
the baby’s swing
swinging emptily

squeaking and creaking
and looking at me
watching me
sit so emptily.