On and On

We cut boulders out of leftover

Construction paper

To cross-rivers powered by prayers

We never learned in Church.

 

When

 

The best minds burst from the pressure of time,

Mortality proved its’ might and

we re-collected the forget-me-nots.

But while we slept,

Ancient traditions mistook it for child’s play so now

It waits for trash day.

 

And we’re expected to dream in secrecy.

 

This place is a dancer with thick callous—

I mean, Calluses—

From barefoot pirouettes on concrete sidewalks

around funerals mistaking

The somber music for Greek tragedies and Giselle.

 

In the mean time,

 

We’ll create distractions by hanging left over trees from the dry clouds and

Hold our breath till “we can’t breath”—

We became experts at counting our tragedies and

Yes we’ll hold them all against you.

A reminder that when 42 going missing its not your fucken

Jobs that we are looking for.

(We’re here for you, We’re here for you.)

 

don’t get me wrong. you’re a palace with one of a kind mosaic people.

I will never stop admiring you.

 

But, right now,

 

We are stuck on watching trees passing like mobiles – sound us to sleep:

“lullaby and goodnight”

(we’re children nestled in the comforts of cynicism in the womb of “one day”)

“tell me the one about the farmers who became princes and heirlooms aren’t just the tomatoes they slaved to plant”

 

well, no.

 

its not your place, its who you know

CEOs and all that shit.

 

look,

 

At some point concealed instruments cut the indivisible behind God’s back and

Made a collage only keeping the scraps that made Fitzgerald write;

all we are asking is to be apart of the Art.

 

(there’s got to be more than this, there’s no words for this)

 

Us other scraps,

Will cut ladders from left over

Construction paper

To climb trenches you designed in districts

Intended for us to hide in. You forgot

Our hands built thick calluses from consistently

Picking up our pieces. This time

 

We’re getting out. Listen,

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