Fake July

When we die, a never ending summer, immersing in last july. When our savior slides down a mountainside, bringing down our houses. If you remain firmly believing in every single word. He will take you aside, you can smother desperation like like a huge, sick bird. Promise of salvation hovering overheard. When we die, they fuck you so completely. They twine, circle 'round, never quite touching down. Cast your fishes's stone to the sky. They try. Short man, hair thinning, shot glass clutched, forgotten his left hand. Short man, hair thinning, forgotten his left hand, shot leaning against the door.