Sleep, rose.
Wither your petals slowly.
Hush, now.
The wolf prowls soundly.

The snow is kind.
Sleep, please.
End this softly.

Oh boy,
I've sinned again.

Fuzzy trinity.

Judas might have met me
and Heil––
such is my betrayal––
and Heil.

Its 3am and nothing else.
To write a good verse, I need a heart.
Just one.

There, a showcase. Hearts of all types.
You connoisseur of broken. You say,
Here are the ones that gush the most blood.
Owners of poetry, verses that quiver.
these are raw, raw, raw.

Ah, yes, you moan and lick your fingers.

I shiver.
Some veins are just thicker.
Come, you say, *I see those hearts won't fit you,
Try these ones on discount.
Plastic copies on a platter
for people to pick 'em.

Knees on the ground, he said:
"The calling of the abyss,
the beckons from the smoke,
the waters down below,
I'm falling with ease."

But I came from his rib.
I bow, –submissive–
In quiescence I can't preach.

Yet my veil grows.

Take my hand.
Anointed or not;
Man,
I am your glory.