The trail of a wedding dress The flower girl holds with tiny fingers Clutches
We too hold the endless stain of blood On white t-shirts On nights that scatter blue trees over black heart Alight by shooting stars The mother tells her child Unwilling to unlock the truth
The truth The truth those stars Don't grant your wishes They grab them With scarred scratching hands. Alight,
The damp stitches in the soil Cemetery symmetrical to hospital Those shooting stars circling Like a vulture Speeds towards dead carcasses Still, the murdering star will not cease
To break bones That have already broken To take lives That have already been taken To burn What is already charred
Today It smells like not your favorite food for dinner It smells like having to do your math homework It smells like burning books It smells like gnawing on your own skin for feast It sounds like tired, howling machines Spurring and sputtering, never-ending their onwards trek
Swallowing distances and with it, nameless faces Nameless places For nothing has gone without the occulent scratching hands taking hold
Today the earthquakes of death Don't make the land shake anymore For it has learned to cope With the desolate cemeteries filled with mute bones
Today burns like gasoline Looks like intestines decorating destroyed doors Today it rains curdled crimson
Tell me shooting star If the child liked jam on his toast Did he snore? Did he like math? Or english? Shooting star doesn't know and neither the bombs.
As bodies fall from trees like rotten plums.
The world was born in blood And has not ceased to suckle its wounds Endless blood thirst, Endless war But not endless skin to bleed