Violets are blue
roses are red
you are a tool
I love ghouls.

GREENTHUNDER?
You say,
and your mic crackles
(faintly with volume
and with your peaking desperation)
WHO THE HELL IS THAT?
Because we are all new here.
We did not know
but we hope to snivel knowledge
into our nerves
and imprint them into our memory;
the ink to our stamp
is our silent hope.

“Why.
That’s not even a poem.”

I’m not a fool.
We’re no fools.
Because we link our pinkies
in silent oath
like survivors on the cliff
against the setting sun
with the blood of the defeated
behind us.

My head’s kinda tall.
And it goes against
what we see as natural;
because perhaps
mother nature
is not as nurturing
as her name would like you to think.

I ain’t no coward.
So we face the light
and our stars
(our Gods)
(our hope)
without despair.

I play harp.
And you strum against the constellations,
settled.