Painted eve of blackened sky, blue blooded clouds
and twinkling cold stones of smokeless fire,
frame the scene of a midnight murder.
Gods amongst the gutters living constantly amongst the shifting world
of diamonds on the breeze, across frozen desert streets.
The adventures of two eyes that watch the seen and unseen
take up words that neither sign nor sing.
Beware fair matches struck to wake the sleeping world.
Now all is fire and ash, kisses and embers.
Progress and destruction, ancestral and contained
clipping laughter of elitism and dominance
muddied cries of disenfranchisement and removal.
We cannot return the forms our Gods amongst the gutters once wore
before imagination led them home to
the state of the unformed, without outline
without flesh nor bone to cling to,
so doomed they remain,
as ashes of a gasoline blaze,
adorned with icicle crowns of shame.