The ice fell like broken pillars,
suicide jumpers from the roof,
as the cello butchered notes
across the ceiling full of bats.

Not a shelter worth protecting,
a coffin more like a living room.
Borders become lines of authority,
Properties crossed in hop scotch squares.

To forgive must be to forget,
or else it’s just pretending.
Does trying to lose involve
the same honorable ambition?

Something’s gasping softly under the cinders,
it’s rotting faith gives off a smell.
Should we stab the optimism with a knife,
or will we let it kill itself?

 
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