They took down the eaves after all shelter was destroyed. Left a pay packet and the desolation of ailments that sang long after the contract was done.
Fed the blade across my bicep, irretrievable fault lines from everyone I had called a friend. Every message in a bottle was a disturbance to still water, the peace I gathered alone but could not sustain with two hands, one mind.
Stole the salt from my hunger, the youth from my face:
I would not let them take the music.
Filled every cup to feign optimism, clouded eyes that had seen too much. Every plateau I took to, they steeped the gradient, each flower, they reminded me, came from death.
They took down the saints of kindness. Cut each nerve ending as I slept on broken glass. Left a pay packet and a phantom of good will once I finally loosened the strings, sailed away at a snail's pace,
my boat savaged by the tempest, my sails torn and weary, my flag falls low, at half mast.