Lost One

Heaven won't claim my Opium Angel,
He's a man who lost his soul,
The darkness festers in his sadness,
And he plunges in the hole,

Heaven won't claim my Opium Angel,
Though he's knocked out on the floor,
Cosmic workings covet his anguish,
He is doomed to suffer more,

Heaven won't claim my Opium Angel,
He stands waiting- gaunt and slim,
Defeat engulfs his awkward posture,
As he courses whim to whim,

I beg the stars and the Lord, Our Father,
To rid him of his sin,
To bring back the man with eyes of wonder,
Or take him home again.

Tar

Stuck,
on my fingertips,
like sap from pine,
just sweet enough,
to hesitate removal.

Predatory,
but no tropical spine or flare,
to alert a young man,
of the carcinogen-
a lingering thought.

Organs

If I poured all my blood,
into a crystal decanter,
it would still contain,
the millions of splinters,
that tear my veins like glass.

No pill nor spirit,
no metaphysical dialysis,
could remove them.

No priest nor exorcism,
could expel the poison.

Sweat

I taste you,
the bitterness-
from your flesh or your disposition,
lingers on my tongue,
unable to dissolve,
Insoluble.

It ruins the new fruit,
a Midas-like curse,
your presence.

My only solace is that I know you taste it too.