A Wasted precipitation, licked clean.
Not of a wound,
but of an internal, fiery crash.
Too late the airbags or
life support devices or
broken promises to one's self,
hastily glued back together.
Too late the dying, limp arrows of ardor,
both ill-aimed and ill-conceived.
An emotional sputtering.

A Crash!
A Hopeful crash, through illuminated shards
of orange glass.
Penetration through blockade.
Senses heightened, Glory restored,
or found.

Maybe it's a dream in a pipe
ground to dust and smoke by
the lungs of my enemy
within

Poetry Magazine