looking around me

 


squirrels in the trees
turn liquid in their
boredom

the stain of used
sunshine lies at
my feet

the language of
love is carved
apart on a butchers
block

preacher stare into
the weary eyes of
empty
pews

memories turned to shards
by apathy: cutting our feet
as we flee in terror of
ourselves

we are a beautiful
dawn cradled by
insufficient
gods

as the rose of hope
dies on our blue,
dry lips