Paint Chips

Echos from a choir of nuns
can be heard from a convent down
the old spiny, winding road-
voices crack a little as sun peaks
in on me as if to view sin rising
after moon stripped demons
from a soul bathed in holy water.

Eyes see pale fingers gathering flowers
to adorn lost sisters graves and its a peaceful
feeling; I just dont belong within that realm
of spiritual fulfillment.

Chipping paint chips from a wall-

during a frigid
night with the devil is the only madness
dancing in a mind that never sleeps,

never

sleeps.