Breaking shells with stones
Rings in my head requiems
Of bathhouses and bloodied screams
Journeying short distances around my mind
Leering at flesh and blood washing in and out of time
With no mourns spread across their quiet afternoons
No tears to quench their unreachable desires
As it burns holes in their coffins of wood
In search of something to make it feel good
Sometimes I see their afternoons as clear as the sun permits
In bars and strip clubs across the street
In church and all our choir meets
Locked in a kiss or freaking in a whore's sheets