They are not here to warn
us; you cleaved to suffering
the way matter binds
to memory soaked
in light.
They will find you
imbalanced, living in what
some may call
poisoned gardens,
diseased and dying.
Still they will not
spare you, give you
what you struggle towards
like ants in mud-
some obscure opening in
the city's malignant wall.
You be the judge. See where
the bones of heart pounded
into dust resemble
ashes, resemble
an unknown animal's
drying blood?
