Forward the crowd marches
toward their god. He is
not mine. No god of mine
lets his creations bleed
themselves dry.
My God sheds a tear this night,
lets it roll down His cheek,
down the neck,
down like this city.
Stray dogs whining lullabies or hymns,
wolves' teeth flickering
in torchlight.
What boy ever cried out for this.
Not I. Not I the girl
with a tendency
to catch fire,
not I girl with a fear of breaking.
Forward the crowd marches
until the blood dries.
The rain pours from God's chin and
we pretend to cleanse ourselves of sin.
The dogs and wolves alike
shake their fur.
How easy it must be to call ourselves human.
How hard it must be to admit ourselves animals.
My God says
He created us to fill something:
anything but this.
The crowed marches forward
until the torches are swallowed by torches.
What human, what animal, what god
lets a good city burn.
What color must every creation bleed
to admit ourselves just that.