The sky is dead today,
but it looks a whole lot prettier
when you pump it full of formaldehyde
and slap some lipstick on it.
Its hair has fallen out,
but they make wigs for a reason.
Though Christ was once
the world's most skilled coroner
the job has been left to the Children
of the city of God.
America is the last reservoir,
a stoic Indian
with a single tear
bleeding onto a deserted strip of highway.
We are the carbs we inhale.
We **** parasites,
choke down antibiotics
and anger our parents
for coming home fifteen minutes after curfew.
As mother earth lies
dying in a hospital bed,
(s)he listens to the sound of her
heart monitor,
looks at her dying flesh,
and says
"My God
how I've gotten old."
And us,
we,
the people,
all but cells
in this planet's ravaged body
reflect on what has changed.
Me?
The parking garage where
my friends and I
used to make believe
ain't gonna be around much longer.
The schools I visit
on weekends during the winter
feel shallow,
my victories easily won.
My nana lost the ability
to pick up the phone
and dial seven digits,
and the flutist
started drinking again.
I play the same seven songs
every Sunday,
and I try to believe that something
is out there,
and that there's a reason
for my eternal sense of boredom,
and yet I can't help but think I'm stuck.
My eyes are tired,
but her body is warm,
and the only time I find solace
is when I'm running my fingers across
her tattoo.
People change,
I changed,
hell,
Mother changed.
When I look at her high school photos,
I think,
"How did we go from Pangaea to
pieces?
We really let her go."
Yeah, it's our fault that Mom
isn't feeling well these days.
And we all feel real bad about that.
And we feel real bad about ourselves.
Up in the heavens,
the heart monitor spits out its last ding
and the line begins to flatten.
The sky ignites
and as this happens
we all come to the same realization.
Our victories are not hard-won.
We are not the sum of our parts.
All accomplishments are
only the result of circumstance.
We are nothing without our rifles.
We once had meaning,
but we gave it away
at lunch for a
Snack Pack.
All at once,
the continents collide.
The doctors in the sky
burst into Mom's room
and attempt to resuscitate her.
Earthquakes shatter our spines,
volcanoes erupt,
the world burns in a flash.
For a moment, she awakes.
"I love you,"
she says.
"Always remember that."
Then all is silent.
The hospital
shuts off,
all lightbulbs burst
all patients dead.
No life supported.
God smiles.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
The sky is dead today,
but it looks a whole lot prettier
when you pump it full of formaldehyde
and slap some lipstick on it.
Its hair has fallen out,
but they make wigs for a reason.
Though Christ was once
the world's most skilled coroner
the job has been left to the Children
of the city of God.
America is the last reservoir,
a stoic Indian
with a single tear
bleeding onto a deserted strip of highway.
We are the carbs we inhale.
We **** parasites,
choke down antibiotics
and anger our parents
for coming home fifteen minutes after curfew.
As mother earth lies
dying in a hospital bed,
(s)he listens to the sound of her
heart monitor,
looks at her dying flesh,
and says
"My God
how I've gotten old."
And us,
we,
the people,
all but cells
in this planet's ravaged body
reflect on what has changed.
Me?
The parking garage where
my friends and I
used to make believe
ain't gonna be around much longer.
The schools I visit
on weekends during the winter
feel shallow,
my victories easily won.
My nana lost the ability
to pick up the phone
and dial seven digits,
and the flutist
started drinking again.
I play the same seven songs
every Sunday,
and I try to believe that something
is out there,
and that there's a reason
for my eternal sense of boredom,
and yet I can't help but think I'm stuck.
My eyes are tired,
but her body is warm,
and the only time I find solace
is when I'm running my fingers across
her tattoo.
People change,
I changed,
hell,
Mother changed.
When I look at her high school photos,
I think,
"How did we go from Pangaea to
pieces?
We really let her go."
Yeah, it's our fault that Mom
isn't feeling well these days.
And we all feel real bad about that.
And we feel real bad about ourselves.
Up in the heavens,
the heart monitor spits out its last ding
and the line begins to flatten.
The sky ignites
and as this happens
we all come to the same realization.
Our victories are not hard-won.
We are not the sum of our parts.
All accomplishments are
only the result of circumstance.
We are nothing without our rifles.
We once had meaning,
but we gave it away
at lunch for a
Snack Pack.
All at once,
the continents collide.
The doctors in the sky
burst into Mom's room
and attempt to resuscitate her.
Earthquakes shatter our spines,
volcanoes erupt,
the world burns in a flash.
For a moment, she awakes.
"I love you,"
she says.
"Always remember that."
Then all is silent.
The hospital
shuts off,
all lightbulbs burst
all patients dead.
No life supported.
God smiles.
I didn't proofread this prior to posting. Wrote it in one big burst. Feedback appreciated, as always.