Monday, February 6, 2012

guns like roses

my fingers gather dust
from days without sun
sitting in a chair of tears
spinning, spiraling, a patchwork of
about who you are
and where you'll go
with that leavenous message on your sleeve
with that feigned trumpet of humility
that blasts apart
the truth
with guns like roses

Guns like roses
sweetly stealing

from the pockets
of starving