The Steps

Reciting the words
doesn’t always make them true,
and brass wings don’t promise a better view.
Songs become heavy
and dreams become food,
and home remains a place only known in youth.
Bang the drum slowly–
for me and for you.
Count the steps to her heart,
then get a tattoo.
Mark yourself forever
with ink of deepest blue,
then watch it all turn grey one sunny afternoon.
This is how the world ends.
This is how the world ends, they say–
not with a bang,
but a bleeding at the soul.

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