words

we are blades of grass
swaying softly in the breeze,
brothers of circumstance
we mutter amongst ourselves
some way out of this mess
but our plans are small and crude.

we are dogs gone astray of the pack
loping through the grass,
with great bounding steps
we bite at the world as it passes,
sleeping in the sun,
our paws stretched out in the dirt.

we are broken bottles swept together,
the shards of our greater selves
collected in some corner of the room,
we are whole only in pieces,
our glass forms glinting in the sun
remarking theories in the dust.

we are storm clouds racing overhead,
bearers of rain and hail
blocking the light from above,
we swirl about collecting glass and dust
from the forgotten places of the earth,
removing them from their dark coalescence.

slowly, slowly,
the winter days pass without a gesture,
the brittle wind cold and indifferent
and breaking the skin of our sanity
exposing it to new elements of wickedness
as we move about so broken and misplaced.

we are stale remnants burning in a field,
the smoke from our souls filling the air
with sadness ahead of reason,
we are but beggars of a simpler god,
pulling at the hem of heaven
in hopes of producing some favor.

we are lost in this place.

-S.C. Martinez