nine six twenty nineteen

[maggot]

Syllables not uttered
My words once lighthouses in her eyes
Now fall flat and die in the silent spaces in between
She came to me in a dream with a need to bleed the characters to the page
And we cried and rocked back and forth
To avoid being seen in their death parade
It's all a charade
We made to placate our insufferable days
Give way to to the rise of anger
Gave wine and dinner with strangers
Broke bread
Not fed
She said

I used to hang on your every word
Like I was your bird perched on a branch rounding that dirt road curve
Our 10 o'clock paranoia sets in and again
My driftwood drifted elsewhere
But that was before the water fell
Now I'm your ninth circle of hell
You knew damn well
I'd end like