Brittle bones, shaking hands, forgotten.
Sits broken like the world,
spotted with age, wrapped in folds of time.
At the brim ready to escape. To run from lips
cracked and dry, the concrete that traps us.
Dust in our lungs,
choking words.
Ink.
Dark pools flood the page.
red, hot, sticky.
Burns through the words that form heavy
on the child’s mind.
No crowd to listen, no audience sits so still,
to see youth wrapped in a cloak of age.
Carry it, heavy.
A carton of eggs.
Fry them, eat them, drop them.
Let them hatch.