On some days, sleep is difficult,
Even though the wayside attitude of not giving a-
Still prevails within me,
worming its way around when I try
to wish it out.
The drone of the midnight planes
Makes me frantic
they
threaten to latch leeward
to whistle
to scatter our heads in the night
to conjoin us to
the bodies of those in the next country over,
the sea no longer a buffer state.
After bursting out with
well-contested for war on
our own children
We then went for
the species closest to us
and
each day
continues to be a battle
not of the species
but by a species
the earth we have claimed our own
the skies are ours to tear, once
we have set the ale below us on fire.
Unless it permeates us-
for the lucky ones,
it is to catch sight of
a newspaper headline
a broken child
a clog of rubble we refuse
to acknowledge-
And yet, why would we?
If the world were to stop spinning, wouldn’t stagnation be
An Equal Death?
We argue that if even if we stopped
living our lives
our feet would be ill equipped to
offer change, or duty, or some
hapless mechanism to be more than ourselves
Most days it is oblivion
but on nights when I close my eyes
and imagine the little girl
who cannot sleep
not ever-
for fear
that she will sleep forevermore,
I still pervade in comfort
knowing that
bombs will never drop from my sky
will remain in my sleep
and any tears will remain of the
liquid kind.
I am
able
to wish it gone
in less than ten seconds.
the same time
I suppose
for someone to drop dead,
Under the aim of living breathing spit fire.
