4 a.m. birdsong before
the day
collapses before the
lights in the garden
fade and i am looking for
word here i am
singing a song or humming
a dirge i am
crawling backwards into
the room of
forgotten
saints
a memory
heroes with needles
hanging from their
arms and then you grow up
move to a town where the
poison
flows from the factories
to the river
kills children on the way
and only static on the
radio and nothing
but mindless reality
shows on tv and
so you begin to consider
the
spaces between the
passing seconds
i sit on the foot of the
bed and
consider how much pain
such an ordinary house
can hold
how many brilliant
sunfilled afternoons
can be wasted before a
life is
considered a total loss
don’t fuck me up with
empty hope and
i won’t fuck you over
with
unfulfilled truths
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