Breathing

We pray to ourselves

Because we're our own apostles

Who needs winter solstice

When our hearts are cold and hostile

Fame is a memory

But heartbreak is our remaining fossil

Spinning a spindle of dreams

But the whisper of Death is our throstle

Hands on my knees, calloused fingers interlocked

A coin bucket filled with rocks, and the tick tock

Of a clock awaiting another man to join the flock

Mittens replaced by torn socks

A smock thinner then a mother bird's squawk

To tell a son it's time for dinner

No dinner for this winner,

A cold winter for this sinner

Blood red clots in blocks down my spine

With another life gone timber

I can't tell you a time that I remembered

God, casting his magical rod, with a simple nod

Awakening my mother, resurrecting the dents off the chest of my brother

Just another beaten wife, a sharpened knife, a stolen life

But God, why, do you despise the lies you call your people

I put my palms together, crying tears of blood on the steeple

You said you can count on my head on the number of hairs

But I can't count a single time you were there

Now I'm on the street, only scared of air

Wondering why my father is still woman teething

And why his nose, not his chest was bleeding

And why I'm still here, breathing