Ques?ion

Fuck your hustle.
Ambient noise means shit to the sound of sirens and lights lighting your face
silhouetting your figure against the cold brick project walls.

Wind provides not but a chill.
painting the heart with the fear of incarceration
fear of facing fire as the first fallen soldier.

Trapped in a maze, thrashed by waves
falling from the branch, chosen for its strength
lost at sea.

the breath of the man in the cell next door
curls my toes, scared of what’s next
doors close with no sinks to clean my hands.

childhood erased.
life erased.
through glass, hand prints are merely that.

the music dies
while the harvest waits for the farmer.
slowely withering to a bed of thorns

Wind blows the child away,
over a cliff he leans.