I am nothing if not what I am
A flickering light, blood on snowbanks
I have felt my halo break and twist into horns
too many times for my father to stomach
My eyes burn with exitium ex machina
And my hands bleed from the iron ridge
Of Occam's Razor, seeping into my marrow,
Bleeding my skin to charcoal ink
So, here I stand in the reflection of the wasteland
Sins as countless as the stars and planets
we fought so hard to reach, promising our children
that this time will be different, I swear
That bloodshed is not who we are, baby, and say that
Heaven is too distant, and Hell is too near and
we feed the machines that numb us to the ever-fleeting presence of our gods
Until our bodies break and our bones shift
The mirrors speak horrors to eyes in the dark
The stains on our hands growing to cover
arms screaming upward to a sky that refuses us
We were once clay, now ash, now oil,
Now our hopes are are gasoline and lithium
We are the ruins of our ancestors' ideals,
Creatures of a bleak pocketbook and perfect teeth
YOU ARE READING
Drinking Eridanus
PoetryThis is a new collection of poems. Themes include depression, death, grief, trauma and mental illness. Read at your own discretion. Thank you!
