lateness is relative.

but death isn't.
just ask those i visit

they've seen doom reach
its fist to the sky, snatch
the chords of time
and crater them into
concrete.

i've floated through
meadows
mires
homes
alleys–
familial demise jouncing
my vocal cords.

i was as reliable as death
herself.
until i was late.

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crystal rubbed my temples
as i saw visions of
a new angel drifting
skyward

so my heart's sextant
tilted my chest forward, dumping
me into the
mother-bound cannon.

hastily i hurtled
towards her, touching down
behind her shoulder.

but as i unhinged my
jaw
the miserable wails swallowing
the street
were not my own.

the mother howled as
the gurney cross'd her
eyes, hauling
a pile of twisted limbs
that once shaped her
son.

i could not speak.
ev'ry moan was kindled
in the mother's larynx,
guilt rendering mine
useless.

i drifted along, tracking
her to the funeral parlor–
watching a numb brain
adopt a casket
through dead eyes.

i stood under the yew tree
during the burial, coiled
limbs smothering my
heart.

vocal chords inert, i
was damned
to a purgatory of silent
wailing.

my eyes darted across
the boneyard,
locked with the
mother's

as blood leaked from
her eyelids, my splintered
heart warmed.

there was a new banshee in town