Expectant

we're waiting

emaciated souls fall among the
promises of a better day,
memories drape like skeletons,
and we sleep, hands together,
to try and be pious prior to death.

we forgot how long it takes to take
a life, as we write novels about heroes
and purity that we're too afraid to call
myths. the art of distraction is a
nasty one, at that.

the clouds are rending, it's always
hurricane season when the trees cry and
the oceans mourn. the heavens are
caving on top of us as the children
dance in the rain. purged clean,
washed out, they were expecting to be

free- but there are still spiders in their
throats, crawling through their voices,
and holes in their heads for the breeze
to whistle through.

they're the lucky ones, though, at the
end of the day. their vocabulary
only consists of the word please,
while we have a million ways to say
we've failed.

our only wishes are made to make the
horror corrode away

we're waiting to be saved