Returned Postage. Wrong address.

I.

My night-watch

Peering into the dark,

over the walls,

watching the steel gray fog settle into the valley.

The tones of our voices start to fall low,

into indecipherable murmurs

of what we once meant them to be. Heavy. Hallow. Sacred in nature.

Held onto like that pulse we can't control. Woven into the cloth of desire.

Off in the distance is the River Styx. The boatman slowly rows downstream.

The steam of our breaths and steady, beat, steady, moans, drum,

keeping us in the land of the living. They … the They... Sheltered from the heavy, sheltered from the cold.

Her Santa Muerte nature is holding too tight to the shadow.

And They stand on these banks in limbo. Too rigid to let go of their coins.

It was the coins she pulled. But it was really the cups.

If They embrace all the shadow, we have no room for light.

I want that light.

The Southern Gothic, relying on the harm of strangers, hitting the swinging light bulb,

suspended

from the falling ceiling,

it crumbles, as the bed hits the wall, as the fist hits the wall.

Fade into the unhappy ending.

I want feel good.

Good that my heart can heal.

Good so I can fall in love with myself in every pour,

and then seep into an another like a wound filling.

Good with all my being.

Good so that I can heal.

Good does. Good does not ... hit the wall.

Stuck in a room of walls.

But the want to swing a sledge hammer at the stucco does not harbor the stagnate shadow self.

Hammer reveals the cinder blocks that have taken over my space. My healing.

My fucking god. Get me out of this room.

I want to let that light in.

It comes over the valley. It shows us the way.

Sparkling on the dew of the fields. Away it sails again.

She is healed.

II.

Sobriety

Sour-punch

suck

satisfied

sulk

sound-off

succubus

sanctuary

sure

said she

sorrow

satisfied

smug

sorry.