Children

Children, screaming, bloated
With the blind loving of the wild.
Their tremulous, calloused hands,
Heave their bodies,
Prowling through the bushes,
Towards higher circles;
Where lights of neon,
Burst perennially like leaves,
Making the city a little alive,
Fills me up inside
With broken pieces
Of their mirrored faces.

Makes me wonder, crawling
Like insects mad with sugary beds and
Hot sheets of forgiveness;
May we have none, ‘till the day is done.

When the moon rises before the just,
The soft purple flames
Will lit their hallways,
Showing us the ways of the lustful and
The forgotten, broadening our bellies
With fancies of a better tomorrow.

Our brains go numb, drunkenly
With the realization of
Frightful beasts, that
We are no more
Than yesterday’s fleeting visions.

We are dying, unknowingly
And the bliss of our hot skins
Glimmer with the sweat of digging the holes
For our shallow graves.