By: Marilyn H.
In the church of the deranged
lay your head down in my lap
I'll stoke your hair while
the solemn hymns are sung
reminding us of lost loves
and roads not taken, of
bombs dropping at our feet
exploding with toxic breaths
and sleepless nights
and the disappearance of
flower petals and the sight of stars
the songs are consumed
with tears and sorrow
until your broken heart
seeps out onto the floor
your blood like honey
sweetens the singing
voices of the insane
as I stroke your hair
your tears fall on my skin
trying to drown my sighs
while I'm trying to comfort
your empty soul
impatient for when
flowers can start to grow
above my sleeping head
because for once maybe
I'll help make something beautiful.