a stop sign is ignored in spiteful fashion,
ask questions but sometimes the answer is blank,
drifting on the river, fishing fragments of passion.
At the end of the hallway there's an unlocked door,
winding steps fly into equilibrium,
tectonics intact from petrified pumping,
still seeking the flame, burn cryptosporidium.
In a late hour, bleeding, reality serrate,
from the ramparts I still see myself, not lost,
with a silver bullet gun to banish demons from the mirror,
from sweetest lips, never ignore what matters most.
