You taste like bitter coffee and chapped lips,
a burnt up ashtray and dry eyes
and I stare at the bottoms of your soul,
and the tops of your shoes,
and they are dirty but your words are clean
something I can't always see when the sunshine leaves glare spots
on your rich man's soul, worn like a suit
tell me, when you give me the advice that you seek out,
are you using the broken compass and torn map
that life provided so long ago?
or did you give up, forge your own path,
burn down the cities and bask in the shine of new flames, licking?
dreaming, sickly, pale and it's beautiful,
phosphorescent and ready to explode,
you're like a ticking time bomb, metamorphasis
composed of sick thoughts and kind words
casting judgement on those who didn't care enough
or care too much
and you were my soul guide,
to a spirit that wandered a little too far away from the sun.
© Danielle Willard, 2018. All rights reserved.