hope and half mangled poetry

blood bled pure

nostalgia is the muse

and dredging is the art

i hold lost people like trinkets,

and parade them in my heart.

the past is the bullet,

the future is the wound.

i never leave the graveyard

where we are are entombed.

hope is the prognosis

poetry is the cure

i'll write these people out,

until my blood bleeds pure.