To see the empty sun frolic leisurely during the rage of warm August afternoons;
It is an honor to embrace our sun in seasons of heat and emptiness.
The gaze of death is welcoming,
For it reminds me of violet leaves buried across the sickened cobblestone.
(one can taste the silence
lurking past wasted days as
Whistles limp bi/in/amongst the dry air of regret.
There is no season warm enough to burn the garden of our misfortune.
Which grows gallantly (with a sinister smile) around my flesh.
With a sinister smile, I watch them tower violently towards our virgin sky.