We cut boulders out of leftover
To cross-rivers powered by prayers
We never learned in Church.
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”
its not your place, its who you know
CEOs and all that shit.
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
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,