Each day
I wake to suffer
With a fear
Which drives me
Mad

As some new
And changing
Symptom
Of this sickness
Undefined

Like these weak
And trembling lips
Turning blue
From shallow
Breathing

When my heart
Which races quickly
Seeks to gain
Its second
Chance

Crushed beneath
That empty weight
Of a chest
Still beating
Heavy

Finding death
Is something easy
For this young
Yet tired
Life

Hardly sold
On futures past
By his fate
Now fast
Approaching

At the hands
Of dangerous feelings
Held within
One certain
Place

Deep inside
His swollen eyes
Closing soon
Despite
Their glimmer

Where redemption
Means believing
Passing time
Is pain
Deserved

Waiting long
For true relief
Only God
Can barely
Muster

While the hours
Take my spirit
And pretend
These minutes
Fade

Into hopes
As tiny grains
Blending flesh
With prayers
Expired

Out of torture
Called existence
Like this glass
Of falling
Sand.

– J. Pigno

Don’t judge me
By old stains
Left streaked
Across these tiles
When exposed
To daily footprints
Where thick dirt
Which tramples faith
Drags its filth
Beneath these lights
Under halos
Cold and focused
Like bright angels
Casting shadows
In exam rooms
Chasing scars

Making space
For sudden death
While fluorescents
Mock this prison
Showing tarnish
Through their beacons
Of attentions
Meant to maim
As I suffer
Bitter ends
At these hands
No victim warrants
Proving doctors
Claim their talents
By exerting
Biased grace

And technique
So fucking harsh
That each forcep
Squeezes tightly
Like gray ice
Upon my body
Freezing quickly
What they touch
With their shine
So oddly blinding
Only God
Would be as subtle
As He worked
Without intention
Of protecting
Life as weak

Smelling bleach
Within those halls
Just outside
My gleaming dungeon
Begging white
Much like this flooring
Which reflects
A soiled dream
That I waste
From getting sick
Tracing grief
Around each corner
Finding hurt
Instead of answers
Seeking cures
Their science fakes.

– J. Pigno

This rain
Comes down in waves
Proving
We’re all just shadows
Of a heaven
Blocked
From exposure
To its people
Threatened
By clouds

Believing
Gray makes sense
For the time
Our blue
Stays hidden
Beneath what dream
Is daylight
Like truth
Behind
Each storm

Agreeing
Faith may change
How dark
Itself
Bears witness
To God beneath
Grown silent
Where creation
Begs
His sun

Prepared
Though storms may rage
Even when
Our life
Is wasted
On avoiding stress
So easy
That this weather
Shows us
How –

Finding hope
Through pain
While accepting
Peace
Is feeling
That our wait
For better climates
Is the only
Fate
We choose.

– J. Pigno

Life casts
One hell of a shadow
Which paints
Its gray over death

Staining
The canvas tainted
Beneath what fate
Has touched

As sunlight
Drawn from brushes
Wishes daybreak
Traded places

With nightfall
Come too early
Stroked across
This dripping piece

Blending shades
Of fellow traces
Hiding dusk
Beneath these layers

Wasting breath
Through solid colors
Bleeding tints
Not known before

When tomorrow
Offers nothing
But that portrait
Bleak as ever

Washing hues
Which offer solace
When expressed
As blurring lines.

– J. Pigno

I will not
Button my shirt
And resign to means
More formal

Gaining strength
By appearance
To prove this dream
Unkempt

Or groom
Such jagged hairs
Of my faith
That’s growing wild

Which believes
In small defiance
As new paths
Toward coming change

From ends
I cannot tame
With distinction
Made to envy

Where I dare
To clash with color
And remove
Each matching piece

That assumes
An outward look
Is real proof
Of living beauty

When all death
Can be predicted
Like a sale
On boring clothes

And pain
Its static effort
Without style
Left to cherish

As we pass
Beyond this moment
Like that fashion
Showing age

While boldness
Offers grace
Taking risks
Which flatter greatly

If the wearer
Cares so little
Till irreverence
Sells their look

Letting locks
Fall where they may
Tearing jeans
Through daily usage

Ripping holes
Some call disaster
Though that neatness
Speaks of fear

Hiding lines
Which God has traced
To denote
Our inner canvas

Finding souls
Without transgression
But their palette
Unexpressed.

– J. Pigno

These symbols
I’ve known to weave
Are omens
In boldface type
Allowing me fate
Where descriptive
To wander each page
As a dream

When text
Exclusive to hurt
Proves letters
Fail at description
But become instead
Sudden marvels
While joined through sound
As a word

Or stains
Deliberately placed
Among new lines
Spurting madness
On margins
Begging for chances
To tell their lies
Bleeding red,

Not black
But particular ink
Which bodes
As prophecies written
Within old souls
Growing tattered
Much like rags
Given voice –

These sheets
We humbly express
By the scripted wish
Of our questions
Are confessions
Tragically wasted
And spoiled quick
Between breaths

For escaping lungs
Without death
Yet stealing air
As it passes
Speaking truth
For the restless
Who’ve fallen ill
Making sense

As this web
Decidedly ends
To convey what God
Has encrypted
Beyond my last
Written sentence
Typed in font
That is code.

– J. Pigno

I’m reminded
By this ice
How such white
Is pure distraction
From all dirt
Which hides below it
Faking still
That empty slate

When there’s fear
Concealed by dust
With our bias
Safely hidden
Upon streets
Which crack in winter
Where true hatred
Thrives on cold

Drawing lines
Through powdered roads
Leaving prints
Of fallen victims
While attentions
Barely notice
How this snow
Is always deep

So these hearts
Remain unchanged
Hoping now
This frosted city
Will relieve them
Of their conscience
Missing somewhere
Near that slush

Building banks
Between those curbs
Lacking color
Losing feeling
Keeping frigid
Without knowing
How each crystal
Fosters drifts

Making sure
Of separate paths
Though each sidewalk
Is one passage
Among shelters
From that evil
Killing virtue
With each freeze.

– J. Pigno