Complaining to the
wind the coal in
your stocking turns to pinpricks littered across your sinning
tongue you get
down on your knees only
to get back up again and
shake your head and
wish your lungs were
there to scream at the sky
for you
you wished and
wished for something like
this to come along and
when it does you're
dead and you wish you could
take it back because
two jacks and a queen are
worth more than your
King
and you kept it to yourself
until the bubbles that blew from
your lips were stomped on by
the devils that haunt your
dreams and the moon and all
its angels laugh at the
body you used to call
home and soon enough
you will too
we can't both die; January 23, 2016, 8:51pm
YOU ARE READING
Prose
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