Silence like the yellow tarps drapes around a Buddhist funeral. Beyond lies incense and wilting carnations.
silence bred by hate can only be escaped
By the removal of one’s physical presence
Either ‘I’m going to leave you now’ or
Murder, like the burning of paper wives, you still after your fucking virgins. The silence
can never break,
breaks you instead. Like
a howling soldier crawls through mustard gas. Sky cries.
Yellow bus seats on the way to your widow, family of the deceased.
god I hated you.