Wish death upon no one but your former self,
my mantra driving alone through eventide
golden hills, red-tailed hawks perched like
gothic angels atop skeletal Christmas trees.
Orange and red skies slowly convert to faded
pinks, purples, and blues. A voice tells me
it’ll get better, but this holds the same empty
weight as He will return.
The world is made up of many fires.
My mother prays and I write poems.
I tell her there’s no difference.
Evening Panoply 