Atheist, anarchist, lost little boy.
You're searching for tragedy,
Unlucky in faith, writing your beautiful poems;
And you seem so utterly hopeless.
What do you believe in?
"I believe in the dependability
Of humanity," you answer honestly.
"We are fucked up, we've been fucked up,
And we're going to stay fucked up."
In that moment I picture you
In a church: dusty, abandoned,
Not a worshipper in sight–
And you look at the crooked cross
And wonder if this is what
God has in store for His people.
"Fuck it," you say softly,
And then you leave.
Maybe I can help you understand
That's there's more to God
Atheist, anarchist, lost little boy…
Such a poet you are, creating these
Words of stone and steel.
Poetic, then, that you were written
In flesh and blood and bone.
Such a poet, such a poet.