They'd be Dead Anyway

 

I find myself traipsing through the same puddles of thought
sitting on the same thorny couch as the night before.
The dust breeds in the unloved corners of the bookshelf
in this easy-read novel of staleness.

I see the soft-skin kids sway and swagger
down the road aligned with weeds and grass
shouting over their phone's dinning racket
and I'm sure the weeds out-grow the kids
and their blundering parade of proud devolution.

The dawn exhales another lie with cloudy promises
of new days and illusions of growth
and to this skeletal-breath I'll sacrifice my unborn children,
washing the seeds' corpses from the fabrics that hide us.
Nothing is innocent or deserving of full idiotic trust
so as I'm on my knees thrusting life into the living
just to stain and rot in well-intended fibers
think of me as a hero, saving the few from another breath
and if there is a God watching, my lips are blasphemous
and he knows that this feckless spawning
is all but fruitless in the perishing loins of mortals.