What Drives the Weak

Sound bellows off the walls and across the faces.

Skin bare against the fresh air now stinging souls over and over. 

The child trophies flinch.

Underneath love lassoed nooses hang us from the rafters of your scope of reality.

I slip, and breathe in for luck.

Words choke, and the backs of hands turn into living daylights.

Stars spin in and out of time as the roads that lead home circle back to the same crumbled highway.

Our '89 Buick broke down years before we injected our hopes and dreams as star maps of prisons that lock us down at the bottom of rivers of time.

I don't get it but the hand the feeds, is the one that commands us to bleed.

The faceless become nothing more that escape artists to sirens that draw more than ships but families to crash, and sink in the ocean of wrong. Sharks smell our blood and water deep in the drink.

Look into our faces we don't own.

Look into our soul we don't have.

Look into our minds that aren't our own.

We won the war but we are shells of shells.

Left over Halloween decorations only vintage is the charm, but missing pieces.

Fight fire with fire.

Always on the losing end we burn out at both ends.