I broke into your thoughts and found me missing.
I broke into the world and found us missing.
We are missing from this broken atlas, a place
where once we gathered hope and dropped seedlings
for our children and theirs, but now nothing, only the poor man’s luck,
wings of prayer. The meek shall inherit fascism. Their heaven is death,
no more conflict, no more collectors, no more wrong.
You can do nothing wrong if you are dead, just annoyance of rattling bones.
But you hope for streets of gold, clouds containing the perfect.
The Bible, the poor man’s prayer, his map for the darkness of dirt.