Hit and Run
I see faces full of empty places
Almost as though God did not
Connect the dots, perhaps forgot
When making rocks instead of souls
To fill our animated corpse.
Our marble animus, of course
In perpetual repose
For what we truly fear the most
Is being happy.
There are other people’s rules
For their own unique successes
Other people’s sympathies
Encouraging our excesses
As though if we add another bill
Our hopes and dreams fulfilled
In meeting arbitrary expectations.
When in reality and truth
We’re skin on a tin roof
Blistered from the heat
Of our own internal ire
Hold our statuary to the fire
Until our souls are nearly ash.
As we add another debt
Another hope is let
To pay off what we thought were
Our souls rise in smoking spires
And our dreams, our funeral pyres.
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