We are waiting for news; updates;
Soft filtering words that steep widely
And continue swelling
All at the benefit of our delicate
Hearts lack of resilience.
Sadly, words hardly coo
And sweep the mind into
The silly sweeping lull they once did.
But, to latch, with delicate fingers,
To anything will reconstruct the image
Of the lofty god mired in sheets
And the cold corners
Of rigid sterilization.
Everything bends artificially,
To lead back to itself–
Not unlike our thoughts–
We build you up in sickness,
Into what you built for yourself.
But we are too timid to accept
The slow demise of a man of men.