like small pieces of paper left
in
the pouring rain, like words i love youwritten on each one
the flood and then
the flood receding
destruction and the
thick stench of decay
the dull grey weight of hopelessness
all of your life dragged out to
the curb
to be picked through by thedirtbags, the looters, the men w/ their
heads of carrion birds
money in the pockets of
every politician
teenage sons and daughters
lining up to be fucked ortied down to be raped
it’s a war, of course, and to
pray for
one soldier’s survival is topray for the death of another
it’s a house on the eastern edge
of
town where you live with yourghosts and your fear of the future
no one meets you at the door
after
work, no one kisses you
goodnight,no one offers to die for your sins
no one rushes into the room just
as
you prepare to slash your wrists
no one calls you a coward when
you sit there doing nothing
No comments:
Post a Comment