the revolving door

vintage trends,

tacky yet aesthetically pleasing stripes,

and regurgitated designs

deprive

from our deceased ancestors souls,

digging their ways from

the shallow pockets within our hearts

with whatever remains

of their deteriorating hands.

the atoms of their souls

are inhaled with every

moment where remembrance

finally creeps into our brains.

my heart cracked slightly,

and i swore i heard your

laughter followed by heavy breathing

and bloody coughing.

i know somewhere out there

you're probably flying with

monarch butterflies

or a flock of songbirds,

tweeting

the woes of me and bobby mcgee

and a woman left lonely.

when i follow in your footsteps

with a collapsed lung,

i'll swallow flames

from your old red lighter,

and as my insides turn to ash,

i'll hope to god that

it's more excoriating

then your cremation,

so i can brag to you in heaven.