but
i
can't
breath
without
you
there

why should god care
about the blood you have spilled
they bleed golden ichor
us ... us...
ours is rusting, slow rotting iron

in order to write poetry that doesn't spiral into despair
i must listen to the birds
and in order to listen to the birds
the war planes must be silent

i wish i wrote the way i thought.
obsessively,
uncontrollably,
with maddening hunger,
id write to the point of drowning
id write myself into mental breakdowns    
pages spiralling out like tentacles into the abyss
and id write about you
more then i should

yes,
you will rise from the ashes
but burning comes first

for this part,
darling,
you must be brave

young, corrupted by tragedies of war and exile
alone in spite of himself
boy made of ash and a honey soaked dawn
rust on his hands, in his throat, in his lungs
bright-eyed, rough edges, scraped raw and twisted with time
where is his soft epilogue?

"That's so cute. You think you're scary.
But mister, I've seen scary-
and you ain't got his smile."