sjsprWriting

Shattered glass bangs upon the doorsteps of 

your worldly tomb.

Does the fire and alcohol mix to your liking?

Open the chains set upon your bones 

and fixate on the dead minds,

on you,

dead poets.

Water from the River Sphinx

lapidates on the Earth in which all of you were born,

creating burrows of muddled water

from which you drink out of on your bad days.

I heard the devil sing of the dead but never of the poets 

who's minds have created but hole's in his.