~D. Moskowitz


one day
we won’t be like this
broken things
streaked with scars
that tie us up
limbs tangled
in white webs
that never quite fade

maybe next week
i’ll swallow
and i won’t taste ash
or copper
or the acrid tang
of burnt flesh
scraping at my throat

a month from now
i think, looking at us
a ragged line
drawn in front of a charcoal shell
the night won’t echo with screams
and my eyes won’t open
flickering with a light
that destroys still
even though it’s been dead for years