By Anon Baisch
/ Poetry /
Burnt patterns crevice
their thin shadows
overnight :: the witness
is consumed in the edge
of darkness and we mourn the
silence :: bleak whispers
replace the death carpet
after years of
drought :: and we have begun
to pour over gallons of
paint and hope ::
there is another
way of understanding
this but it involves
a crowd of men and
consumption :: it involves
piss rivers shallowing
their bare feet ::
it involves the madness of
god and belonging ::
but first please bow
your head and silence
and pray :: our bodies
will be a thin chalky line
when everything falls
apart :: we only dreamt
it was all more than
dust