It’s a conversation, a song if you would,
between the profane and the perverted.
A skeleton burgeoning with flora, overwrought
with the thought that this may be the last bloom.
My body heaves as the regurgitated ghosts of days past
exit through my ribs, it burns, I’m cracked in two
flowing seeping exploding I am nothing. No more
than an example, no less than a monument.
My ghosts are my father’s , my brother’s, my saviors
In it’s viciousness, messy happenings, and lost moments of wonder, if you could find that one moment of beauty and mystery among the darkly banal you have succeeded in having a good day.Keil Chvasta