These are the days in which
we construct our worth
from small stones to towers of
sun-baked earth.
I aspire
Oh God, do I aspire
with my knees against
the dry corpse of the earth
I draw a direct line
from my throat to every
cloud in the sky in front of me.
I desire more than what I have seen.
I rub the skin of my hands against
the skin of my hands and I
recognize the absence of apt plans
But I have knelt against the dirt.
I have seen the wonders we have built
with all of their crumbling grandiose
and their gilded egos.
Death reflects my fear like
a mirror, and
illustrates my face with the
weight of my mistakes and
I will run.
I will run until my knees collapse
and I lay my face against the aging ground.
I don't want to talk about it.
I don't want to be around.