There is no snow this early morning, only frozen rain, mud, and black, dead leaves.
There is a church, haloed by a streetlight, but I don’t know what kind of man believes.
A cigarette before it all starts, and there are so many holes from ashes on my sleeves.
A cat watches warily from the church, but the lost are not given pardons or reprieves.
The world wakes, but angels are high on speed and work long hours, holding it together.
Thankless and tiring, they wish for Elysium fields, sweet scents of bright, yellow heather.
I perversely find comfort in this dark bitterness, hard edged decadence of a bitter ether.
Cigarette smoke soothes me, but I burn Elysium with each breath, the sinner’s one tether.
No one here notices the fires in Bethlehem, tears answered in Golgotha every new year.
Out here, I don’t know, we say powerful words with no faith, got to the fridge, get a beer.
Once a young woman touched my faces, drew God’s true name from me, without a fear.
An angel, I was unaware, that touch serves them too, nourishes both us, makes all clear.