So what if words were art and we could
paint a masterpiece over this falling sky,
trying to hold it up with fortifications and
architecture and all the pointless beauty that we
fling into the open, hasty air –
Broken moons and lunar clouds will stay and listen
to our wishful dreams, the spritz of poetry we spit out
at a simple passerby. But we are acquiescent, passive
to raining hellfire and dead synapses.
We laugh over the rims of effervescence and claim ourselves a delicacy,
But what makes us more than just a lunar cloud,
what identifies us as the final broken moon?
Hung high, we emblazon failure across the sky.
Pretty words, let’s paint this world away and hide
in the canvas, in the clandestine that we resigned ourselves
to past tense.
