full stop

and again here I am, bleeding
my heart onto these pages while
dry walls crack open, and the crumbling
paint lays leylines where
the seekers and the wanderers
drift wearily along ridges and vales --
the brief eternity of their existence.

and again, the grinning mouth of the past will
swallow our futures whole, just as we
(with salivated lips) long
to devour our children's. gluttonous eyes gaze
hungrily at beauty unborn, lusted luxuries
forming fat under thick skin, yet
unable to insulate from cold without (and cold within).

and again here I am, bleeding
through the fickle fabric, woven
with the hairs seeping from scalps
of dead patriots, figureheads, and scholars:
thin white wisps of dreams undid,
blooming from their sunken, shriveled
rotten heads, rows upon rows of
corpses, gardens of carved wooden boxes
planted with sticks,
steam shovels and hydraulic industrial excavators.

and here, I am
a dot on a page.