William Taylor Jr. turns words into time bombs. His poems read like prayers, but written to a god of blank walls. A god of suicidal scars, jukebox tragedies, and burned out streetlamps. A god of 4 a.m. A god who slouches in shadow like a frightened animal. A god as fractured and as bruised as your own disjointed reflection staring back at you from behind the spindled web of a fist-shattered mirror. His poems are as sincere as sadness, as transcendent as love. They whisper. They weep. And always, they sing. Like a car wreck. Like a forest fire. Like magic.

Are you brave enough to believe?