Cracked Pavement Saints

cracked pavement saints,
cheap halos rusted.
the ghost, a wisp
of stale cigarette smoke,
vanished.
no pearly gates,
just a slow, greasy drip
of apocalypse.
fear, not of god,
but the mirror reflecting
their own emptiness.
the choir sings
a discordant silence.
heaven's a dumpster fire,
hell's just more of the same.
they watch it all,
these hollow shells,
with the vacant stare
of a drunk staring at a sunrise
they don't believe in.
another tuesday.
another collapse.
another bottle.
another lie.