My heart shimmered into a thousand pieces
and sparkled like the sun...

Why are we celebrating with eggs?
when a saviour died for our sins...

Joy in my heart
let the church bells ring...

I know
how it must have felt for Edgar Allen Poe...

She walks on egg shells, ivory in nature
they gouge her feet, crimson tears falling...

Today is eight months, two days,
if I counted that right...

The water was pink and cold
but I slept past that...

Crimson lips, pale white skin, made of blood...
She holds eternity in her slender, courageous...

When did these rose-colored glasses
tint to a too-dark grey...

This poem's just a little piece of everything,
painted to look sort of like the morning sky...

Darkened grey caves
hidden secrets in dark...

I wavered for one microsecond
in the everlasting future...