Paul Beare

Albuquerque, New Mexico

Upon The Gardens Of Heaven

Daddy its raining again as you sleep face down in the sidewalk gutter across the street from Joe's bar.
Broken bottles of whiskey are shattered all around you and make me only wish that a wrong move would cut you blood cold.
You begin to stumble back to life as I fly back to heaven with the warm morning sun upon my little wings.
I don't want to hear you cry today daddy; mommy says that's the alcohol talking.
Mommy and I are doing well daddy with the other angels of fatal deaths upon the gardens of heaven.
Long ago, as it is in eternal time, I still remember being four of earth years like other little girls.
The bedroom was full of love and laughter as mommy and I read a book when you walked in from work angry one night.
You grabbed mommy with your rattlesnake tattooed arm and like a rattler you struck and beat her to death.
Then, daddy it was as if you felt you had sympathy for my crying and screaming; you pulled a gun out from the hallway closet and shot my heart of love out for you.
I can fly free daddy, but as you are starting to get old, the law will catch you and lock you away until you die and dance in the fires of hell.
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