My Fingers Drip Poison (A Poem)

Will you hold my flowers? 
They’re rotting in my hands.
Oh! 
They come alive in yours! 
I wonder what poison,
Drips from my fingers? 
The cracked voices,
Of broken singers.
Black like death,
Or is death bright? 
I don’t know that but,
I do know that those,
Flowers will continue to,
Rot tonight.

Burning Bodies (A Poem)

The paper kites melt,
Just like the ashes fell.
Scattered over each burning,
Face another memory,
Is once again dying.
A star no longer shining,
One eye still crying,
Because that’s all a burning,
Body can manage.