Crooked Hands

Kick The Microwaves

Innocent curtains

Drenched in rose-fuel

And a face,

Dead,

Returned to the innocent,

Devestatingly tender expression

Worn seconds before his first word

Reversed

To give the death-affirming smirk

He now sports

Worn seconds after

His veins dried up

Famine of circumstance

Third artery debt

Too many important

New microwaves

To deal with

Where the sun does set

But the clouds never dissipate

Biased

Enough

To believe you deserve

Better than they do

It will be months before you find the curtains

The expression will not remain

But it will be mirrored

Very nearby

Very quickly

Until we kick the microwaves

Through the windows

And they lie

A tangled bloody wire-mess

Next to the TV