Are we empty at last?
Is it morning, is that the light I see
there's so little can reach this far
far far in;
We poured the molds for leaden walls
and steel curtains, promising privacy –
threatening it, coolly, with malice,
like the wind.
It doesn't stir them,
but pushes and pushes and wails,
crying through the cracks
and longing for something to flay.
There were never children here.
We don't want them,
they don't know how to want,
and where would they sleep anyway?
Huddled up under threadbare promises,
against the faded paint
where someone forgot to add a door?
It wasn't us.
Could you go away, maybe, finally;
There's only so much oxygen to go
It's mine, I exhaled it,
I made it
from the water that I was meant to
There were never children here,
and I don't know you –