The loud ruckus in our foreheads
keeps us talking. Yet the brimming trees
speak for us all. An angelic boy, star of David
tattooed on his chest, blood on his gun,
thinks an idea will help release the world.
Another boy with a prayer towards the East
straps a bomb to his guts.
Explosive galaxies roam the bodies of the hated
poor. Light is the living universe reflected within.
Perception makes us gods of light.
We are essentially empty
as the dark between stars, yet full supernova.
We walk through the twilight of ourselves.
Our story is the story of both boys:
blood and light, ancient and new.
We are all full of questions and lies.
And who or what is listening to our dialogue?
We want to believe the light
but fear we are nothing
but soil and night.