A thousand washed out hallelujahs drown the sewered streets
as the homeless are arrested for their burdens,
dying in their cardboard graves.
A generation sings,
sings of their lust for an un-abandoned indignity.
Hollowed protest carried only by listless tweets
and insatiable delusions of grandeur are used to spike their drinks.
they’re spiraling forward with catalytic fury saving only ashes from the hell fires started by their own torch.
They stand before you screaming-
LOOK AT MY NAKED BONES.
You open your eyes and there’s a band on their chest who’s songs they don’t even know.
With eyeliner so think you can’t see their iris to know if its blue or gold.
You wouldn’t know naked if it peeled your skin down to your bone.