Written by Alan Thorimbert

they told you to stretch and fly and you fell
            told you to build
            and then your walls crumbled
            into tiny rain-filled shit holes

you were told to find love: to embrace it with all of your being
            but somewhere along the way you discovered
            lust to be easier; a more profitable commodity
            with a greater market for trading

disillusionment is cigarette fluff
            but it’s all you have left
            so you build a fire
            or another thing that will keep you warm
            or make you feel love

            you sketch with ash
            but there isn’t enough to draw a castle

            the ancients wore sackcloth,
            must you as well?