and i wanted to be
beautiful
i wanted to dream
not pollock but picasso
not christ but pilate
childrens' hands cut off
by soldiers and left
in the streets
leaves falling
from a pale blue sky
words like food
like drugs and
every poem a needle
every priest hung
your god washed clean and
your crosses pulled apart
and the crows as they
picked at the bones
the bones as they
grew up from the soil
your flesh like religion in
those last perfect days
