A weathered Monet
Takes you to
The bottom of a charcoal grill.
And the grate above us
Is street concrete.
Our shrill voices
Have nothing left to sing.
Our lips move, but no one is saying a thing.
And so I am silent, while beneath me,
On this charcoal grill,
This blackened monument of our old and better days,
Things rattle, and hum, and shriek.
And in my head, I let it amplify,
Until I hear the screams of mothers and brothers,
And others whom the pheonix has burned and drained.
And it makes me swear that they're all the same,
And I want to scream to everything,
But I don't know where to start.
But I have a change of heart,
And I scream to everything that is righteous,
And that is honest, and that is earnest.
And I say out loud,
"They overturn us.
They try to pillage and burn us.
We'll use the fire to light our furnace
And fuel us on the journey ahead. "
The stress pumps helium into this headache,
I swell like a breaking baloon.
We hope your fingernails
That dug through the wreckage will grow,
And be cleaner soon
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