mornings

most mornings, i can’t see
from the water filling my eyes,
it’s sticks and stones
that make everything blurry.
my chest caves in
with the weight of a new day,
and the light takes away
life’s defining edges.
There is no hope,
forty or fifty more years
of every morning tears:
dying is how we cope
with a wasteland between
the whores legs that I came
and the box that will close
and the stone with our name….
oh i only know this path
where righteousness has missed
every flower on the ground
there is no beauty in this math;
there are no more to count.
it’s the morning once more
the dying sounds out the door
it’s a bus that takes me anywhere.
And they ask where I come from
and I can never say,
not from shame or delusion
but I’ve known no other way
the transport to here
seems different today,
and the spark in my heart
hopes we all get to heaven
but i think your god
has something different to say,
for mine hasn’t said anything
in ten thousand days…