Pipe Smoking

If everything we did made perfect sense
And was perfectly healthy,
How would the dead find peace
Knowing that we were wasting
Our one chance at good living?

Perhaps, sometimes, the smell of burnt cherries
Should rise above us like a ladder to the heavens,
Begging to be climbed.

The Siege of St. Paul

Sheets of ice rose into the sky
So many clouds of frozen tears
And all the rivers,
Done froze up.

He blew into his hands
And checked the temp.
So many clothes to wear, and so many
Hearts that needed jump starting.

The war had been on for months...
Or was it years,
Or was it centuries?

Few resources got in and
Nothing
Got out.

The siege had been on so long
It was a joke, something to drink about
And forget.

St. Paul a dream, a puff of frost
Kissing snow, your tires squealing
As you failed to top that icy hill.

She had no lipstick so she bit into
Her tongue until the blood pooled
And she licked her lips crimson.

The siege gripping every throat
Like Old Man Winter,
Refusing to let go of something
He could no longer remember.