when the sun went down in my chest
it didn't even look at me
and every picture never made
turned dark, all those of nobody.
the broken hands that wielded swords
forged by our ancestors
what if we had spat clouds, called us
happiness protestors?
In every frame there is a line
as opposed to happy songs,
at least that's what the sun's been saying,
dull where it belongs.
I thought of four hands in a fire
wondering how I'd live,
but in the distance setting my chest feels so
determinative.
Keep it.
