And so it begins.
Again, a grin scrapes its way
Through the grimace on our prayers:
For the fallen. The forgotten.
The beautiful ones who speak
With the twang of a god
And twist of a timeline.
Tequila-tarnished sun in your rise
From the grave to grace.
We are butterflies crossing freeways.
Razor-witted obsidian simian scholars
Calling each other culprit.
Preachers rockin cock rings in the pulpit.
Picking our dreams clean
Close your eyes, eclipse an illusion.
Listen. Find truth in confusion.
It is there. Like we are here.
Survivors: the plural of phoenix.