Poetry

Sometimes you want to
walk to the gallows,
for my sins.

It was a big fight
over the organ stop, but
I had a different version.

Living in mirror had
become a charm. At least
you were visiting me daily.

Like sniper fire.
It was a volley of bad names
for a nameless, nearer home.

In quest of fear to
understand the unknown, I
have sacrificed my birds of night.