from a run

A cathedral built of bending
Sycamores
Whining in the wind. So many
sorrows, so much
laughter splintering silence
as they straighten their spines
to make
room
for
more

Life is bigger
bigger than the
space we
designate for
our God
Bigger
than the
space our God
Designated to hold us.
Everybody seems to
think they'd be
a better
boss.

Fat Arteries fracture
the shadows
illuminating
our cuts into the
earths flesh.

we giants slumber in
blackness.
forgotten.
Lights can't wake us.
we don't
exsist
too busy cutting arteries to be
distracted by
exsistance.
Too Busy taking what
we were given and
pimpin' it out so
we can be
comfortable
Comfortably numb
blinded
unable to see
darkness for the light
unable to hear the screaming
in the forest,
of our children,
we are so able to builld yet
so unable to build big
enough.


I MIGHT HATE THIS POEM