strewn with roses
is a sunken vein,
a collapse damming
in spots the treacle
poison of amen;
a blended bane,
aimed at a notion
to uplift and bless
a sentiment named
belief in some
and fright in others;
either of which
allows one to breathe
in the stench of age
and its slow surrender.
And lets one watch
how it wracks
the bothered body
and leftover soul;
for it empties
as soon as it fills
and swills all
that was once
plentiful; then
the terrors wax
Go ahead, drink
the last drop
of wine turned
water, equally red
and raring to exhaust
with excuses about—
how this or that
will never happen,
how there is no
goodness in you only
monetary weakness,
how there never was
a path to heaven
only a way
strewn with roses.
