tell me that you can see the sun,
as the gulls cry to the moon,
their screams echoing off devastating craters,
as my grandmother sits, knitting,
on a porch that's tainted blue, with peeling white paint.
tell me that the stars still exist,
as they infringe upon my vision, black edges creeping in,
as if they're some kind of twisted boogeyman,
shying away from the light, but afraid of the darkness
filled with fear and pain and unlovedness.
and even as death perches in his rocking chair,
swinging a pendulum of eternity, playing with lives
as though they are pawns to be sacrificed to the game when 'needed'.
tell me that the clouds are still there,
shadows hidden in graying eyes,
with smoke pouring from outstretched lips.
and there's lipstick smudged on the wall,
a dark, sinful red, the exact color of spilled wine on a carpet of deductions,
leaving a stain just past the one of ignorance
and bile rising in throats unbidden,
and the crimson swirls still adorn the wall,
and tell me that that's not blood.