Sex and Murder Magazine

By Brandon S. Roy

And there will be more of your children dead tomorrow.
Angels don't live here

They don't dress in gold
And they don't pray for the dead

In the ground, were the dead vanish
It’s cold and no one really knows what happens

In the arms of religion, people seek comfort
In false promises that keep them from offing themselves

Distressed by fears, especially the night
The murmured anxious sounds in the dark

Cold pale hands of shadows imprint the dust
A clamor of frozen breath over the shoulder

A chill, a strange silence, a television glow
And the wandering of lost dead children