Let us walk on empty trails,

where the sky is damp with dew,

the clouds all talk of you

in jealous whispers.

The darkness meets

in swelling streets,

thick with the mourning heat

of lightning dimmed…

patients talk of the evening

with practiced care

as though their air

and unhurried, worried stares

would not speak

of nights gone by

with you in tow.

Let us set out to meet

the son of God, the wife of Hell,

what stories they could tell

among the fallen places

where the shadow graces

ugly children with its shroud.

The town is opened to the surgeon’s knife,

a life of well-practiced intent,

the bent of which has defied

and multiplied

with the echo

of times past…

denied all wisdom

and opted

for the beauty of selfishness instead.

Before the patient’s dead

and lying bled upon a bed of roses,

before the streets

have poured their store of knowledge

from the minds of prostitutes

named Chloe,

before the evening’s lost again

in the falling of unsilent rain,

buy me a drink

and think

of all the noble children

hid by shadow.

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