He knows the importance of vertical strokes.

And to plant a garden,

you need Gods good virtue seeds.

But flowers cant grow on forearms,

just as razorblades dont serve as a rake,

but if you cut this way,

we'll all drown in a crimson lake,

killing more than gardens in its wake.

He sees monsters in his bedroom,

wicked figures that deem him the insomniac.

pulling covers over head,

forming bomb shelters under a cave of sheets.

Not realizing that every counted sheep is a hand grenade

and with each chatter of teeth another blows its top.

Rendering the war in his head a free for all,

betweeen a pack of cancer sticks and a pill bottle.

Knowing its easier to close the cover than admit our time isnt worth the fuss.

Finding comfort in imagining a forever sleep.

Because dreams are moments;

moments on an analogue clock,

not militairy,

allowing him to live twice in one day,

but never exist.

Pressing forehead to cold sheets,

eyes to fingers,

twiddling his thumbs long enough to keep the flicker of a flame prayer

floating long enough to linger.

Boy, god has left your bedside,

he knows what its like to see sin though clouded eyes

and feel the weight of the world behind them.

"When am I ever going to wake, 

this must be a dream,

never falling asleep."

Tap, tap, tapping on the walls of his fishbowl,

drawing pictures with the fog of his breath,

titled, "mommy, daddy, and me."

Quckly slashing the glass,

as if to erase any memory of ever existing.

He kisses the clear wall with the pads of his finger

and whispers in broken tones,

"God please show me that you are still with me."

Candle stick arms as the pen,

conjuring up S.O.S messages on the clear walls that hold him in.

Nothing moved except the quiver of his tired muscles.

Forehead pressed to cold glass,

thumb to finger...

In the absence of a flickering flame,

scilence fills the transparent tomb

and not a single prayer lingers.