Rose in rows un-masking,
the fragrance of the lucid-dream
chamomile infested—
coffins made of willow trees

persuaded disenchantment
on rivers of stagnation
claustrophobic, polished eyes
broken in-cant-a-tion.

Progress fueled by empathy,
or—tanks of nicotine.
What does it mean
to climb with ropes of stone?

Find me love, or find me strength
For it is waving, and not drowning.

does this qualify as a prayer to god? 

the poem that was found  into something that is found. 

i was walking along on the street, minding my own god-damned business and came across this piece of paper. it was a volunteer sheet for some church event. like the do’s and don’ts, basic role descriptions. I’m p particularly fond of the third to last line.