Soprano

Woman found dead in
elevator, it's a
sad sad sad
Earth to be a bear in some
brawl to be a snail drunk on
some heart or some tune in the
back of His holy throat.
Who drinks His wine and
crosses three facets and who
eats fish on Sunday.
This Earth.
It's a hell of a thing.
My milk is too warm now I
can't take it, can't take a
baby girl in my arms as some
single father, she needed me, I
adopted her in some dream and
named her Francesca for
her dark young shadow who
beautifully left us too soon.
(I wasn't even born yet)

But who the fuck was she even?
One of too many to count. Another
face.
Another pair of lungs, a
heart, a pair of hands, the same,
the same the same as
us.
But different.

No matter how many
cans of beer I open, I
don't like us any more.
But there's always
more letters
to write.