it hurts. to you it burns like magma

slowly, slowly

creeping over the elbow.

it hurts it hurts it hurts, but

the tears

they hurt more.

they are not fire

or hail or

asphalt. 

they are history

looking down

on you

because grandpa didn't

and daddy didn't

so you shouldn't

but

you are.

and it hurts more to stop

because nature and history

collide

in your irises

which gleam brighter than the setting sun

shining on the asphalt;

the red of blood

is

the kaleidoscope of sunset

both falling away into the black asphalt void

and you wish wish wish wish

you could

just maybe

fall away too.

you're scared

no

petrified.

what will daddy say?

be

a

man,

son.

can't he see

you're trying

trying

trying

trying

dying