a blistering morning thought

a quarter of 3
and the sun has yet
to fuck the sky
and the morning
is but a deafening sound
on the horizon
of a landscape
composed of
unreasonable purposes

the children sleep still

the linens have cooled
beneath the blanket
of dire intention
yet the scabs haven't
healed fully
upon the beaten skin

cold mountains of desolate
deliberation,
take this knot from the throat
and leave patience behind
so we may find
a reasonable solution
to our destitution

give a fair slap
to the face of tranquility
in perpetual penance
and dig out the sores
from their very root
and let the blood come
tumbling down
over cheeks
where tears have only tread
before

flay away the tenderness
from ragged tongues
which speak of countless troubles
in a dead man's dialect
that has been long since forgotten

give unto us
an ending so great
the gods shall weep
sweet songs
of remembrance
for what they have done
to the living

break the backs of the leaders
so they may know
what it is to crawl
into the grave
like all the forgotten
who have ever died
for their convictions

give this to us
while the children are
still sleeping the sleep of the condemned
so they may never wonder
of the greatness done before them

all of this
at 3 in the morning
before the sun
has yet to fuck the sky