IV

her voice
painted a pair of doves
on the ceiling of his cranium

pretty
and special

eyes roll back to have a look

and they find
a pair of doves
on the ceiling of his cranium...

they're the last he'll ever see

proverbial debris
in the wishing well

strange rainbows
for salvage crews

he poured the gasoline all around himself
but misplaced the matchbook

failing comes naturally
and as an art form

he'll stop caring
love will devour itself
stars will rain down

and he will never have to make sense again