Bone Girl

A resurrection of contention

Photo by Anya Osintsova on Unsplash

Is it me
Is it you
Is it an us-like we
free for all
pieced together
bite by bite?

we
an architect’s prison
uniformly
descending into the madness
of old lovers’ demise
each one
of her painted faces
swivels sweetness
around

and

around
spiraling contagions
from viral rain
bathing echoes that ask:
am I beautiful yet?

why such reliance
on long redacted words —
has the sickness
fully taken hold?
the futile ones whisper in waves
until skies turn
jet black in lieu
of a new neon king

and so we sit
watching worlds
drag the forgotten ones through the theatre
who am I —
not a person of consequence
to offer a revolution in places
where hope is hell
and…