Burned Bridges

cosmos brittle

She smiles – but, life having burned the bridge of her nose,

it no longer has a means to travel from her lips to her eyes.

“I hate him,” she says,

in the same tone she used to order her decaf latte,

taking a sip

and trying not to spill

on the perfectly white tablecloth.

Here Lies the Doubly Dead

Here lies the doubly dead;

O, how the mighty are fallen!

Rootless,

branchless,

drowned for good measure,

Rasputin’s fellow,

a liturgy to terror.

Shaved from the Tree of Life

with bested blade,

your clutch at green

becomes a sickly parody,

a humorless and desperate joke.

Denial let you cling to life-support

while the summer sun poured down,

but here you lie,

destined to wear

the bottom of a boot.