We will walk
the broken soil, bite
the meat off our marrows
alongside our sanity
and we will let
our dismay weep
ceaselessly from straining
ivory-smelling lips.

In our eyes
that talk of faithless wars,
there's a little place in
our hearts that we
still hold on very tightly to—
where in doubt, there are
bruised birthmarks that time can
never heal, because time
is the sickness
and disease
that devours all.