Stepping away from the street through a broken broad open two door, you painfully walk into a high congregation of brown paper and leather. Once inside, along damp tired walls, you discover anointed paint quietly peeling and unclean fragile carpet, frayed by disappointment, falling into gloomy empty corners.*
Steve Coel
Cut into bitter wet stone by masters of dead trades, your life story. Brief like you, words torn from broken parents, target the elders who created your passing.**
Steve Coel
Our life hangs on a single thread / It soon is out and we are dead / Just like a flower you were up at dawn/ A day passed by and you were gone / So boast not reader of your might / Alive at noon and dead by night.
