Descending from Cain
Even by sight or breeze
of my open window, I know not
if this is a summer or a winter.
No season reborn for the man in wait.
Beggars want wine and coins,
not postcards.
They slur their poetry, tattoo their mark
on the softer man,
suffer and fall away.
What is made of man, if not fool.
For man is sacrifice.
Man hears the heart bells but does not know them.
Man seeks courage in displeasure
as the shepherd of guilt
or a thief who’s only option is the dark.
They struggle in a gardenless bloom,
suffer, and fall away.
There is nothing more to sleep
but to sleep.
Page(s) 28
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