Mostly misinforming minds that carry passports to a cave that leads us to within. The bunkers full. Of rocks and slides I took before. The army green of surgeons scrubbing, staring at the task of reconnecting hope again. More upon my shopping list and ragged calendars of time.
Tears are snowflakes in the sea.
Always seem so out of place. Rulers snapping knuckled pride. The sticker of a wheelchair hanging from my rear-view mirror. A crimson, clotted admonition. Frailty becomes a crime.