i am wading through a sea of the dead’s faces,
my lexicon of names and lives and actions: a burning library
an empty thing: lost generations, a form of death: being hidden
i am wading through a great ocean of cement and i am praying
that it does not set and harden, that i am not a series of trapped bodies
i am told to exist beneath the surface of the world, bracing for the impact of boot soles
i am wading through the deepness of the sky and i think i must be an angel
or a ghost. it is hard to see martyrdom in a graveyard of statistics, it is hard to speak at all
under this atmosphere. you refuse to say my name, its gaping absence tells me to hold my breath
i am wading through pools of my own blood, pouring from a wound
in my side, made by a knife wielded by fundamental hands. i pulled by the blade
not the handle, noticing the pain in my palms before i could scream out at the sight of you
here i think to say, i could like growing old
here i think to say, i am trapped and i am not sure i will survive
here i think to say, they are coming for me and they won’t stop even if i break
here i can say, i would like to live for this cause.