Unfulfilled promises jangle like an empty syringe of morphine

Sprinkling the pain of blockages further into the veins

The chapel at the turn of the street is cob-webbed with morbid confessions

They tar its facade; reduce it to a box of walls when faith disappears

I cannot pray anymore...I am sunk in the creek, in a jungle of letting-go

When rescued, I'll make triangular boats and float them in your name, like water flags

Seasons will come and go and I will continue to sing the songs you wrote for me

From between the jowls of my December mufflers...

...Will continue to torch the corners that failed to receive light

In the spell binding, fleeting, summer of our love...a summer we called home

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