I forgot about their records of this
They took the same notes
Measured the same walls with their hearts
Choked on dimples and legs and children
Yet their blood filled wine glasses
While she fills aluminum
(This girl, with her Styrofoam dreams
and flies in her head)
Their colored dream makers never abandoned them
For more currency and class
Leaving them with moths instead of sleep
Their ovens stayed warm and their
scribbles walked to the stage
While her scribbles are replaced with pitchers,
poisons and bedsheets, seeds and disappointment
What glory would such a destitute cloud dweller have?
One would not deserve such release...

Who are these people
with rags hanging from their brows
and frowns upon their shins?
These people that crowd around
holding each other's hands and
trying to stand?
Who are these people?
and why must they cry..
dripping sadness in to the streets
Sending bitter hatred in to the sky
and longing
the painful, empty longing...

Hard to the touch,
he drips poverty from his rags and it
oozes down
to scurry across the pavement and
touch my toes to remind me of
my broken shoes

Who are we?

Oh, my love, you will never go far
Swimming in your father's thigh
We all know of your origins
Your father, in all his might,
Is your father after all

Does that cure your fear of being deemed
unworthy?
When any mirror could reflect your divinity in
beauty
You indulge in your grapes
And swallow ideas of bitter revenge

Dig your mother up for one last kiss
Her lips, struck by your father's wonder,
long to teach you the world
Yet you starve, begging for his glory
You will find that beneath the thunder
humanity still strikes him the same