wars do not make lovers.
nor look back before they leave a wooden gate that creaks
as kisses do when you breath in between—
we break it, before your head falls into the gutter
and my shoulder bones cracks at weight
by gossamer hair and school buses
that never leads us to any escape.
down goes picket fences;
they planted themselves back in the soil—
to grow is to never know
how much of my father's heartbreak
could send him home
to paint the wood fresh milk as he liked it better when the lawn's cut—
the stain runs thicker on your own blood
ive peered into smoke that swells
like the butt of his cigarette before crash
he sleeps, with chest a flowerbed
ive became too careful getting past.
never go for foot wings on the run
they burn near shooting fire
before wishes reaches a hundred centigrade, they dissipate
with the sun
radios active yet i hear frequent
scream, they glow
as they saturate
on this land's distant dream.
i wouldnt want to skin trees
to put debris on alexandrias shelf
i held onto freedom
til it parted me
way far from suburban stories that dies unspoken
with resiliency.
the nature of mad men
on clandestine
kills a flock of birds that'll never sing.
- zi | we
