hell and gaze
at his flickering thief fingers; his
but no clouds out, parched from the drought you
can still scream.
do you love to move your oldest
off his hate
stand and observe the beautiful things
you’ve built since
said you’d be
better far from the sun by the belt
or the gun.
as he screams
meaningless rage from the days where he
and the scars look like dimples as you
smile at the
and the sight
of the mountains you’ll climb, and the times
you’ve healed, free.