the revolving door
vintage trends,
tacky yet aesthetically pleasing stripes,
and regurgitated designs
deprive
from our deceased ancestors souls,
digging their ways from
the shallow pockets within our hearts
with whatever remains
of their deteriorating hands.
the atoms of their souls
are inhaled with every
moment where remembrance
finally creeps into our brains.
my heart cracked slightly,
and i swore i heard your
laughter followed by heavy breathing
and bloody coughing.
i know somewhere out there
you're probably flying with
monarch butterflies
or a flock of songbirds,
tweeting
the woes of me and bobby mcgee
and a woman left lonely.
when i follow in your footsteps
with a collapsed lung,
i'll swallow flames
from your old red lighter,
and as my insides turn to ash,
i'll hope to god that
it's more excoriating
then your cremation,
so i can brag to you in heaven.