You're shivering in a pile
Of people, sick from a toasted neck
While you hit each clot on the chalky ground
And your tightened pupils wince.
Are you wearing a shirt? You've forgotten but
It doesn't matter to the infected, seething stripe,
The soldier’s decoration for your lonely spine
That folds over like the moon,
Its best hope for company.
Your neighbor leans on you, dropping one of many
Heads that tumble into your space but you don't
Care. Memory's in replay as you see your brothers and
Children slammed onto a cart,
Metal, splinters, rust and all.
Couldn't they have led us quietly?
Quietly to the moon?
No, forgive them, forgive them.
I don't think they know what they’re doing.
A neighbor’s ribs land in your forehead
With every jerk of this monster, this truck as
You dream of a boy, alone and symmetrical.
Are his eyes begging for another candy
Or to sleep without another seething stripe?
He's beaten at three years and snaps to planks below.
You open your eyes. You cannot watch.
But now imagine this isn't you nor your brother nor
Your children but the soldier who bruised your body.
I help you piece together the crumbs of
My heart as that soldier thrashes before you.
You see him within my gift to you, a prism of hope,
Look at him, and lead him to your execution line.
A church of brothers and children
Reach for your hand that has dried up like
A raisin in the sun before
The guns that stain your blood
And mine.
An anchor that holds you here,
Tearing at my core.
I weep for your seething stripe, your charred neck,
The carving of your skull,
And the murder of your family.
I weep for the boy, the soldier that was beaten in
A burning land that pierced my feet.
You just don't see that my body is
Bruised and nailed beyond a holy veil.
Of people, sick from a toasted neck
While you hit each clot on the chalky ground
And your tightened pupils wince.
Are you wearing a shirt? You've forgotten but
It doesn't matter to the infected, seething stripe,
The soldier’s decoration for your lonely spine
That folds over like the moon,
Its best hope for company.
Your neighbor leans on you, dropping one of many
Heads that tumble into your space but you don't
Care. Memory's in replay as you see your brothers and
Children slammed onto a cart,
Metal, splinters, rust and all.
Couldn't they have led us quietly?
Quietly to the moon?
No, forgive them, forgive them.
I don't think they know what they’re doing.
A neighbor’s ribs land in your forehead
With every jerk of this monster, this truck as
You dream of a boy, alone and symmetrical.
Are his eyes begging for another candy
Or to sleep without another seething stripe?
He's beaten at three years and snaps to planks below.
You open your eyes. You cannot watch.
But now imagine this isn't you nor your brother nor
Your children but the soldier who bruised your body.
I help you piece together the crumbs of
My heart as that soldier thrashes before you.
You see him within my gift to you, a prism of hope,
Look at him, and lead him to your execution line.
A church of brothers and children
Reach for your hand that has dried up like
A raisin in the sun before
The guns that stain your blood
And mine.
An anchor that holds you here,
Tearing at my core.
I weep for your seething stripe, your charred neck,
The carving of your skull,
And the murder of your family.
I weep for the boy, the soldier that was beaten in
A burning land that pierced my feet.
You just don't see that my body is
Bruised and nailed beyond a holy veil.
