Tears travel grief travels faster than the speed of stability which travels without us in times of crisis.
From tombstone to tombstone, we scavenge hope, finger worry beads as false-positive casanovas and junkyard madonnas set their diseased hearts to cruise control through the slow ruin of the American landscape.
It’s no wonder the pained smile crucified upon strained faces longs to resurrect into moments of jest.
It’s no wonder the color of our rebirth is black and blue.
Towards our eyes sails a light who’s speed isn’t what it used to be.
Beneath our flesh, wings long to burst forth, carry us to a place where we can atone dirty amens.