We have a trait in our blood,
something special gets passed
around. It’s contagious. Even strangers
who join us get taken by our touch.
And seeing afar, we see perfect
blood, but not our blood. Perfect
touch we can’t seem to copy, we
suffocate instead, accidentally
smother with a nice, soft,
something. Special.
Down here, everything we own,
everything perfectly good gets
blown away; just leaves in the wind
on the brink of decay. Always marred, we mar,
it drops from our hands gets out of our sight
out of sight out of mind;
can’t seem to soothe with our touch we
hold too tight to the point
where it’s too much.
When the day calls for us to look, we look
the other way; laugh over times that aren’t
completely behind us; and everything, our
days, moments; everything, our children, each
other, gets thrown without the safety of wings and
I swear I hear that guy saying:
“This is why we can’t have nice things.”
I can see them destroying while they sleep,
but I’m not strong enough to wake them
from the dream. Even with the hands
of my blinking brethren we can’t
do much more than scream into
space, where sound doesn’t travel.
And you know what, I’m tired too, so I go to sleep
beside them and dream of different things.
Of somewhere far from our homemade noose
where I can hide my everything.
So that one day we can stop sleepwalking
for our little ones.