approaching the age of christ

this will be my year

blood and famine
and small crucifixions
and there is nothing i can do
to stop any of it

the shadows of birds
across
the walls of this room

the names of the dead
written on tiny scraps of paper

buried by the water’s edge
but nothing grows and
nothing grows and
nothing grows

and it’s october
and the wind cries all night

tears your face from my mind
and then it’s november

the missing girl turns
seventeen

her parents walk away
from their religion

let the flowers
fall from their hands and
gather up whatever bones
they can and i have no
words of comfort

i have prayers
but no god

that the sounds are made
at all
is the important thing