Sometimes I forget I write this stuff.
We shake the dirt and soot
out of our hair and clothes,
our feet stay stained with mud and ashes;
the ruination a magnificently gaudy sprawl.
Who let the light touch fire, touch heart
and spread across the floor
to begin licking at sensitivities long abandoned?
Fantasies that tickled until they burned,
leaving only blackened bones and teeth remaining.
Accusing distal phalanges
still pointing out the gaps in our logic
with unnerving accuracy.
The question is drawn out,
tentatively as a sharp knife.
“What happened to us?”
It catches us exposed, exhausted.
We shudder in silence,
each unwilling to admit they know;
unable to speak the words.
Our eyes are drawn to another grim horizon,
bloated with vain, broken promises.
Succor and sanctuary?
We wind between jagged, twisted columns,
vestiges of our lost empire
obscured by smoke and blood.
Treaties and accords,
recorded in languages no longer read or…
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