Hearts fight hardness, mumble prayers
to the angel stuffed theater of the air
a nurtured wound that sings of love
and speaks of hate.
My head moves in the lower sky,
my heart a creature crawling.
What hurts just hurts, it doesn’t sing,
the hard’s too hard for spirits.
And the souls out seeking ether’s song
will stalk and strain
for the distant voice beyond the city’s noise
the warbling wound
that guilds the hate
that echoes under the hollow hurt,
A wound with being.
A psyche so battered, so bruised it sprouts a fuse