The rain was my mourning,
As it sifted through the misty air,
Landing with purpose
On cracked cement.

Leather boots splashing
In the wake of fallen tears.
As if god could learn empathy
And cry with his fleshy maumets.

His knuckles were knots.
Round, tight bunches,
Tied roughly, taught
By the lessons of men;
Who seem only to brutalize
The beauty of the body.

His heart was chiseled.
Stone in the stead of flesh,
Fixed to a function. Grounded,
Not in hope, but the kiln’s capture.
Heat, the blistering rage, resolved
In all the hand’s heartless work.

His mind was not his. Home;
A house of helplessness. Now,
The mental mutiny made know.
Year's of yearning for youth, only
To forfeit all faith of the future,
In exchange for hard truth.

If you want to sing your song of retribution,
Face me with your empty eyes wide open.
If you demand that I pay my full restitution,
I’ll give you my penance along with my sin.
I’m not here for your old, dead institution,
I don’t give a **** about the piety of your men.
If you really are the end-all-be-all resolution,
Then simply strike me down and take your win.

To look up,
And see the plane flying past,
Is to conceptualize,
The distance between us.
We may sit together on the swing,
Winter slowly rolling in,
And talk,
But we speak in different temperatures.
Your words condense on me,
And drip down my body.
Shivering we see,
That we are separate seasons,
Never again to exist coincidentally.
There will always be,
The distance between us.