waiting for rust

back to this
again

cold and grey
and the eye of god
closed tight against the
raw sound of animals
dying terribly

you were hoping for
something better

a child of your own

a small white house
in a quiet town
but here we are on
beecher street where white
is not a color

is instead
a waiting for rust or
maybe just bleach spilled
across a favorite
shirt

a minor shade of despair
and even if the
sun shines it casts
only shadows

and even if
the windows break
we’ve forgotten how
to bleed

and there is never a
shortage of angry fists
trying to help us to
reme

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