write an anthology for which
broken part of me?
       the one that weeps for
        innocuous souls too early departed,
                or the one that split
                their necks open, looking
                for gold?

i’ll tell you, there’s
no treasure in the eyes
of the hated, and no
hope in the minds of
those who burn cities
to the ground just to
smell charred dreams --

staying alive
is a risk that permeates
the groundwater everyone
in my life drinks from. i could
be angelic or heretic,
new found or lost
to the ideas of men i once
was, before led astray,
before the radio chirped,

& my intruder’s openness
closed the hearts of souls
uncold