Black teeth fit the grin
of his slow, marred lips
caked with the soot
of the frame of his days
made of ashes and poison
and night and his hate:
his construct of promise
designed by his lies-
collapsed in his wake
to his sad, sad life
spent locked
in pale, cold stars-
fire-lines in comet-
tails tracing prison-
cells in twilit halls
of morning dark
spent in dreams
at a dime-a-dozen
while he sucked from the nipple
of his drug-lusted regret,
until everything fell,
until everything faded
and he held out his hands
and saw they were empty.