By
Abe Onche
Innocence sits on the
threshold
He sits, at home in the
vacant vastness
Decadent, twisted into
silence
By the ravages of a
destitute lifetime
He cannot raise his eyes
for fear
Fear of rising to the cold
stars of love
Fear of rising to the harsh
words of safety
Fear of rising to fall that
much lower
Far from the light and the
face of God
Angels with tattered wings
are his company
It is they that prompt,
they that prod
They are the demons in his
flesh
Scouring trails across his
nerves
He cannot rise to reach the
stars,
The lights he once delicately
counted
Now replaced by the glint
of metal
Littered across the ground
around him.
Evidence of heights he
tried to soar
On chemical wings
There is an irony to the
needles
Desperately threaded with
dreams and hallucinations
To sew up a naked existence
Leaving nothing but a score
of wounds
To mark their vain efforts
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