The Killing

Tonight there will be a mercy killing.

The open hearted flower child is going to the pyre.

The heart on the sleeve is being torn off and discarded.

I am no longer what I was.

No more manipulation.

You have all done your best to murder what was good in me,

But it is mine to kill, and I will do it gently,

Without pain.

Short poem

You are as hollow as an empty beer can
A dead soldier
All shine and no substance
You left me here to smoke too many cigarettes
Sitting in the dark in this room that isn't mine
Left too many muddy footprints
Left me here to wallow in doubt
As if there were any need for more of that
Here among the debris
Of your most recent nuclear attack
No peace
Your toxins will float in with the weather
For many moons to come

Boots

The boots belonged to someone else
They never fit quite right,
Turned out a bit too much at the heel
Pinching a bit too much at the toe
But they were good boots, the leather was sound
And the soles had no holes
No holes, that's important
Solid boots for walking and working
Polished the leather to a soft shine
They really were a nice shade of brown
With stitching
Tough boots for wandering and losing oneself
But never tough enough for losing someone else
Those soles, whole and unbroken
Never could protect from broken hearts
Or broken promises
The shine of that leather couldn't brighten the shadows
Cast by the lies
The boots picked up dust in their travels
And scars
So much stronger than the person who wore them
Whose scars didn't show
Whose leather would not polish
Whose soul had so many holes.