Truth moans in the butterfly spine
pressed against my lips…
Chained to the thin hope of resurrection
my eyes walk gray smudged clouds
praying the sky doesn’t suffer
a drought of
wings.
While crows watch I dust shadows
for fingerprints of misery to collect
evidence roots are forced to grow
green with death so dinner plates
look pretty before obituaries.
Souls line plastic bowls mined with fork and spoon
so the wealthy can grow Eden in glass bubbles and
trust Flint’s river of Oz will never reach their faucets.
Little is done when no one leads.
I am one but louder when others join the chorus.
Insurrection stores matches in hollow eyes
until Karma signals results have almost
traveled full circle to reasons.
