A generation of desperate pronouns

I -

This is not me trying to write love letters to
each and every one of you,
but a snowfall of words to blanket
true thoughts instead, the hot dry inferno
relegated into darkness,
each spark a star to light up the charred sky.

This is me letting out the air from my tires as if
my fingers could really gauge
how faint the whistling release should be -
if evoking any feeling at all is worth the risk
of a flattened black heart.

II -

This is not you tearing up the papers
that document our youth,
afraid to look back and see the top of the hill
we call Poetic Achievement
and celebrating our descent to the
land of disenchantment, singing illusions.

This is you standing at the zenith and
not even noticing you are surrounded by
animals and insects -
hoping for a greater lesson to learn,
hopefully by the time the sun catches up to you.


We are not swimming blind in this garden pond
topped by clear water,
rooting up the mud and death buried beneath -
yes, this is the last fortress
we will ever defend against
the shadow of the hanging tree.

We are but a few, yet
we wield the slivers of our romanticism like
war drums throbbing the last moments
of our lives, clinging to poetry
because it is all the oxygen we need.