Salty tears evaporate kindly,
reappear in stormy clouds,
standing on the pinnacle
screaming at a flight of birds

To hell with it.
I sit,
in the back pew, -space reserved
for lost souls.

I shiver,
grow near
to hold time’s hand,
no friend of mine.

I dig this grave,
stare into the tunnel,
God sees -appears jet black.
i run,

8 years and counting,
every face
jaws protruding,
lemon shot eyes.

*originally written and posted 1/11/2017

Poetry forgiveness listening well suffering this writing life