5/20/02


Why does the world’s hand
always paint its own sweet children defenseless?
Amidst that panoramic collage of beasts and obstacles
the children are many
but each is seperate and alone.
I feel like one of them,
prone to the biting whispers of angry men.
The parasitic air stifles my voice
but carries theirs to heaven.
My desperate wisdom is born as an echoe.

There!
Burgundy splotches stain their child-like crowns.
Twitching manic as knots bind them to the ground.
Quivering, fluttering their lost and found wings.
At the threshold between
criminals and kings
they wait eternally
for love.

I am just another child staring tirelessly
in confusion
into the grim faces of the giants that inherited the earth.