[2] WE LIVE FOR NOTHING
There's nothing left now—
only the smoke misting away
the faceless body counts,
the smears of blood painting
and kissing the grounds clean.
We live for the ruins, ashes and war.
It isn't gas that fuels us to
be monsters, but we've been
drinking it for a while now.
We tear apart cities, steal the past
and throw them away.
There's nothing—
only the vacant space where
the memories used to exist.
We build bridges only to
destroy them, and the letters
we put into paper fade
just as easily. We don't
hold the world, but our hands are
calloused from collecting
what's left and trying to shatter
the remnants instead of putting
them back together.
There's nothing—but we're still here.
We fight together in the sun,
we fall separately into the dust.
And at the end of the day,
we'd come home rusted,
stripped away of guilt and
we do not complain like we used to.
[But isn't it so much easier if we did?]
YOU ARE READING
Witherland
PoetryAgain: precarious. When blood remains, I see the world tripping over the edge of the sword, red and forgotten. They drop, drop, drop-- balance. And we fall endlessly. [a poetry series by alice © 2017]
