no matter how blue the sky

the sacrament have
all been chewed up
and pissed on by
drunken dogs, and
no matter how blue
the sky, it is always
cold
there is only pain
for the sake of pain,
the hymn of all that
is mortal
 
the horizon is broken
and now carries the
heavy pigment of grief
the morning dove has
been crushed beneath
the winter sky
and that which is  
left behind is not  
worth having
 
the girls/boys in their  
summer clothing --
their flowers growing
in my hand,
out of the sight of the
world on secert nights
under the eyes of a
leering moon--have
turned to wraiths
of my reflection
 
old woman time,
the ruins of Rome
in her gnarled fingers,
the Dead Sea in her
hard brown eyes,
lies beside me,
the blood runs  
from the fingers,
arms and legs
 
the clock on the
dresser shakes
with fear as:
 
the carbon monoxide  
reaches Ann's lungs
 
the shotgun lies next  
to Kurt's body
 
and couples walk hand and  
hand down the street
covered by the glorious  
weather of their love
 
while bombs of unfulfilled
dreams fall and explode
all around me