I was supposed to walk
this earth and make
a change, but I didn’t,
and I still walk just
the same.

These plump tear ducts
are ripe for picking.
The fields are dry and
ready to combust into
another weekly fireside
sweeper of moral.

But I must be a father
to my crestfallen anchor
and usher in the streets
of baby lying long,
watching the teeth cut
and sculpt that *** into
new laws and lands.

You cannot carry dead weight
over chipper sidewalks
with the expectancy of waves,
without song and stress
lifting and pulling
shoulders up into the
grinding mountains face,

kissing it's cheek for the
assurance it needs to hold
the flaming skies up for
us all here, water starved
and ready for transitioning
into the painful parent
ritual of children treading
w a t e r .

~Jeremy Szuder