We Are Bulletproof | 2

an hourglass drains too quickly [poem]

It's daunting,
the hands of a clock that does not measure
the grains of the fluidity of time,
the urge to hammer through the hour glass
until we are in a pool of broken crystal
and soiled sandstone.

What is peace to us,
the infected flesh and bones of age and change,
so complicated in our future oversights that we are
underwhelmed by the gift of present,
burying it until we find ourselves
in over our heads?

Love me now before the heart inside your chest
quivers under a brittle rib cage,
and kiss me on lips that are chapped and blistered,
bruise them so prettily that they are a permanent herald
of the fires we cradled so intimately
until they fade into the embers of a past
time will not allow history to forget.

It is a curse,
the curiosity we feel,
the ignorance we cannot feign,
because our promises are torn by death
and lack of chance,
like vows written under lustful
intentions and greedy pockets,
for every unanswered question
strings so sweetly like a harp
and we find ourselves unapt at following
the tune of such a beautiful instrument.

It is unfair to be independent
under such unjust limitations,
to struggle through the vastness
of a world that we never truly feel adequate in,
to know significance is irrelevant when your name
is but a word in the directory of
a population unsatisfied by every second of life,
living around numbers that don't ever
add up to enough in the end.