a sense of self

the cold cold metal and the dried blood.
Helps us forget what we could or would
have been.
the songs that wind their way through the
Ancient speakers sing of times we fight
times we cannot admit to them.
the winding music sinks its teeth into our
aching hearts.
The aching times of which we would not speak.
Dearest debtor, you have not paid your rent.
dearest boy, do you have what I had lent?
Time and time with footsteps in her wake--
nothing but fists held in our hands. Nothing
in our hands. to show. nothing to show.
Quiet lands filled with silent whispers.
Silence, then murmurs of what was had.
The bridges she kept moving back.
The dam she loathed and loved away.
Hands on your face, and tears form rivulets
on your angel skin. The whining music bites at our
ears. It holds a mirror. And challenges us. To see
ourselves.
Could you see yourself?
You writhing, mewling, retch?
and you claim to know the good of life.
You claim to know. you said you knew.
You craft the cancer that steals his breath.
You form the sting with the edge of your lips.
You let the siren song burn through his ears..
and the saintly blood
finds it's way back
to the felted earth.