Bloody December

At the edge
of the garden of eden
standing there as a
torn and leaking garbage can
choked with smoke
muffled voices in the head
and the cigarette dancing
trembling in the hand

slipping into circles of fire
till they become bare and wither
unweaving threads of every
ragged dream and desire
in memory of the love
written to end as murder
in the coolness of that
cold winter of december

for the journey that started
in the womb of her mother's
and ended straight into
the hell of the gutters
the warmth of the
spilled blood
and its promise
to drown every living memory
in its red bloodied river