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?
