Broken on the hard timber floor,
Like the moonlight,
The glass takes a different look when it’s broken.
It becomes cold and dangerous.
The wind through a broken window is so much colder.
He had been dead three months
When I dreamed he was sending me emails.
In them he asked, pleaded
That I send him food.
If the dead returned from the grave
They would head home,
And you would find them sitting in their chairs,
With the television on,
Tears pooling and dropping from their empty eyes.
The dead long for one more day.
So it was over just like that
And the lies that came were black, hollow lies,
Lies that keep you awake at night.
The disappointment feels like cold rocks
Under your bare feet
On a midnight walk.
I had not looked at the moon for a long time,
So tonight I spent a…
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