I have a heavy soul. It’s made, of
cast iron lead that speaks between
the cracks of street corners,
not yet named by bulldozers and
strong women in suits, the color of Easter.
And, the early morning always draws
the Queen of Hearts, leaving my
xyphoid process to be picked upon
by the birds still weary, from the moon’s lengthy howl.
But we’re just animals in the end. Some,
have wings and some have perfect roots
that never hit the rock or sand that coat
the coasts. Animals that sit, in dark rooms
with poison and animals that push too many
buttons, patience that wears as thin
as the morals that keep us locked inside.
Go outside. I’m tired of your eyes.