I91

We are the rusted whisper "fuck"s, hoarse from funeral songs. We are the shattered ghosts, grayed by long drives and cross words. We are the hearts so drunk with ire so as to self-destruct. We are the poetry killed by the moment and the seasons immolated by past mistakes. We are the hated and the broken and the denied, leaking blue into blue. We are the dormant angels in the sand, so trusting as to love a crow with the song of a dove. We are the dead throbs following.