Singapore Train

The secrets paint the madness in her eye,
lost in alleys of midnights ease.
A silhouette bounded in a leathers clutch;
a cigarettes smoke spells out a fated crutch.
Stranded in the shadows of a pouring rain
the moon in a Harlem street.
I’m high on Whiskey; I can’t see straight.
Awaiting a misgiving
beneath the eye of God.
Three men waltz off a Singapore train
and I take a sip of a papered bottle.
Whispers have never sounded so vivid
and breath so rancid.
A mural of a sunken ship
doomed to a gun street wall
only eludes the mist
of a maddened bliss unbeknownst
to a dead woman’s ribs.
A darts ash dances beneath my feet
like starving pigeons fighting for the remains.
They disappear just as fast as the smoke
blistering from my frozen lips.
Then a fist is drawn;
black trenches freckled with red,
groans and pains murmurs echo down this empty street.
Shadowed faces speak only by their breath
shaped by the chill of air.
I can’t help but smile.
A hearts race beats have softened now
to the sound of a child’s innocent weep.
All is utterly silent and a wind begins to patronize its speech
through the blades of my hair,
setting the icicles in my eyes corner.
I can’t help but feel somewhat guilty,
delighted her soul has vanish into an untaken sky.
Dear mother,
Forgive me but I have sinned.
Morals instilled in my birth have slipped into a shallow sleep
of which has lead to your ruins.
Now your dead
and awfully exquisite.
See you on the other side.