Fires working

Stars that aren’t stars
are screaming in the shadows
and I hate them.

Colors bleeding like death
fall to the ground and disappear
but it’s not the end yet.
More are falling soon.

A woman wept in her driveway.
She was a poet.
Her tears rhymed as they fell
to the ground.
She danced alone,
sadly and lostly.

Looking at her from my back porch,
I realized a truth.
She had reminded me madly
that a coffin might make
a comfortable bed tonight.

But would it?
Maybe they wouldn’t give me socks.
I want socks when I coffinate.

Would it matter? Socks?
Why spend extra time warming feet?
They’ll be cold forever anyway.

Why build an illusion?
I don’t know why.

They don’t know why.
They just do it.
They fill the caskets.
Formaldehyde and socks.

Unless they forget.

I think deeply now.
My feet are cold and
I don’t have socks.
I need to say goodbye.

-Goodbye-

It’s true,
she made me want to die.

But instead
I try to not.

I try to not
goodbye.