little blue flowers

we see london

i'm sort of a mess
and you're sort of a chess
piece
playing yourself through
life's haze and-
"check please!"

i'm getting tired of smog-filled rooms
modern
witches without brooms
a hundred icy fingers plucking at
stitches
and wire-bound looms
with precision and skill
manning our
lives to their will
maybe we'll never go in for the knives
just the kill.

and it's sort of a poetic flavor of justice
to tip over the kettle
for them to be able to trust us
after every bone broken by
a flower petal
and not just in us
it's the bite of the metal
soaking into your bloodstream
men don't climb mountains
just the women cry
the children scream
hushed by the rush of the fountains
bleeding rust and diamond cuffs
this isn't a war
it's mandated lust burrowing
deeper and deeper
till the people cry, "enough!"

this is the game played
the softest minds frayed
like rope wrapping and knotting
tighter 'round itself
afraid.

messes make us.