nothing is sacred
nothing is sacred;
not even the sheets you go under in intimate confession, sign of love, caressing your skin like the stars to our ground, living before they burn out and collapse in nothingness as if they had never existed.
not even the windows on a moody day, and their raindrops, or the snow outside. one day you will stop being able to see what's outside or worse, what's inside. your house will fall apart and so will every church.
not even the power of one million people who cry out for help. desperate on every avenue, every road, and next to your house. so much power that every other year withers away and blooms again in your consecrated mouths.
not even your fingers, when you point to the sky and see the clouds move with the wind, for it too shall pass and we will pass away when we aren't ready to, like leaves on a tree every single autumn.
not even life, as it slips from your hands and onto the hospital bed or the pavement of that street. when the rain washes all that blood away there will be nothing left for us, the children, and life goes on but that blood does not.
like the day turns to night and all dust turns to dust, the children of our children will always be told of us. and may we march with them in a sky never any clearer than what our sins become.
nothing is sacred, not even heaven, so may we live on, but never forget them.