The dumb candle
you huddle your
fingers your hands
around, the one
that warms your
face is just as
dumb as you
or would it be
more likened to
ignorance,
you and your
dumb flame
absent of fear
from any sort
of breeze or
something
more severe
clinging to your
randomness your
Don't Open This
Until My Death
Letter pressed
to your chest
free from any
plan it's in
God's hands
(candleless, bloated
with a warmth from
within)
At a quarter to two
they murdered the
fool who dared
suggest that God's
plan is no plan
at all and the prime
mover moved only
because the rents
were too high
and you,
one dumb breath
away from freezing
from living or
dying
You do not have
that endless ride of
of flesh imbedded in
your muscle memory
nor what a cold tomb
nature and humanity
provide for the living