by David Hay
Two tears walk in stilettoes down the runway of my skin. Man’s grief is measureless. The dove white sky flows onwards like a heavenly river. My eyes are the mountains that return the sky to the earth. The crosshair of a mother’s distorted scream falls point blank upon my skull. One shot and I’m dead. Upon the holy altar of madness my offerings wilt and rot, bringing fruit flies to feast. Roses a sickening shade of red bloom through my open mouth and swallow the sunrise.