Wreckage

There is a cut eye
and it is overlooking all of this terrain
caught under all this rain
where everything is overdue
and the graveyard statue’s faces
all are crying over someone
they had never even seen before alive.

This town is a midnight drive
where it is busy and the city
calls the small time working wretches
out to run their fingers over all
the faded glass that locks the past
inside them like a vacuum seal.

A place designed to cut you open
so you never heal and all you do is feel
how there is nothing worth the sacrifice
they take from us by never leaving anything alone.

I want to own nothing
to be something that can stand without
the crutches we’ve been cradling forever.

Give me the looking glass so I can see
the sand bar we are headed for,
and aim to not be stranded there
without her looking out for me,
beneath the only tree left on the beach,
that’s so far back through days
I’ve sailed away from.

The only change allowed
is of the shifting clouds
we cannot get a grip on from the surface.
It makes them nervous seeing something
that takes upon itself a burden
meant for anything amazing.
As if they know that there is something
we are chasing like the lightning bugs
in summertime we see off out our windows
and go after like their light could show us
corners of ourselves we aren’t seeing,
in the wreckage of a century repeating.