The lamp will burn the longest as we watch,
blood to pavement in the form of a breathing heart.
Plastic flowers sigh within these annotations,
the cement can only hear what we create.
Voices unheard of from those running into the dawn,
hammered out by ignorance.
Moon craters shift toward fingers
that pierce the sky dripping sobs
and curses and faces white as chalk.  
Tombs laid by hearses,
not with haste
but, a decent taste of prayers and monstrous mourning.
The flowers today keep us here, the constellations keep us high.