Empty cans clatter as the wind blows them around,
I sit here on the roof with feet barely off the ground.
It is the familiar sound, some auxiliary,
Capillary thump-thumping noun
And silence, violence against the city.
The morning shines a different light
From gritty to pretty,
Peaceful to pretty picture portraits
That you frame in your minds cemetery.
Sedimentary layers of dreams and dead things,
In which life is death seen in circumspect retrospective.
And this perspective is elected from the zombies
In the stench of the tension that condensed on the floor.
A folding chair props open the door
Up here on the roof where it had happened before.
It bends like a page,
My spine breaks like a book
Full of prayers for the given,
Taken away from those they took.
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