The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.
Bright beads of red are rising through the ink, Hearts-blood bubbles smearing out into the black stream
I’ll never speak to God again.
I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.
Kiss me and you will see how important I am.
Death may whiten in sun or out of it.