Of Poetry

There are bloodied sheets drying in a passing,
The gloom engulfs a sleepy town.
“Is it the mother or the child?”

The loudest fears come in frowns.

There is a beauty behind the barrel;
A click, snap and boom.
“He was happy, he wouldn’t have..”

The brightest lights fade too soon.

His teeth and nails are stitched to my skin.
In these terrors I bask.
“No, please no. Please.”

The ugliest ‘love’ never asks.

There is a married man with a silver pendant,
Engraved “forever after, F+T.”
Another pendant six feet under sings,

“How can you call this poetry?”