Screaming in Ways That People Can’t Hear

When the shine is all gone,
and the wine of a 60 watt
bulb just isn’t enough, the
mournings get dark.

Sleeping on the floor under
the window so Orion can see.

Has he forgotten us by now?

A ticket on a train, waiting
to arrive at your destination,
a thousand miles from home.

But home is not a place.

A half-written poem, a pack of
cigarettes, the son swallowing
the sun.

Pulling down the sky to drink
it from a bottle, as the girl
in the glass throws shade.

Crooked feet standing in the
rain atop a mountain on fire.

Screaming in ways that people
can’t hear, here with rats on
the vine wearing plastic crowns.

No jingling change just heavy
chains and skeleton Valentines.

The loneliest person you’ll ever
meet is yourself.

Broke in fancy clothes behind
faded blue eyes and cold coffee,
if it weren’t for second chances
we’d all be alone.

Strangers in the night, broken.

Ghosts in the garden scaring crows.

How many cups can you fill with
your own blood, mixed with words?

Like a shot in the dark through a
black hole with no heart.

Do you have what it takes to fill
that void carrying a suitcase full
of broken dreams and arrowheads,
digging more holes?

I’m just trying to find my way to you.

Let’s meet in the graveyard underneath
the winter stars when it’s all said
and done to sing our ode to the moon.


Β©James Dennis Casey IV 2018

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