The Cackling of Crows

We use our bones to bash each other,

the daughter’s shape to condemn the mother,

the boy to the brother, the father,

o damned patriarchy,

they rail.

Tap, tap, tapping nails into each other’s eyes

so nobody can see.

This is the freedom we’ve been granted,

to be equally disenchanted.

The arguments are for arguments’ sake,

the excuse to feel impassioned

in the passionless world, the sinless stake

in the end of the word: morality.

It is archaic, useless. Mortality,

banish that as well. We are infinite. We will return.

I don’t know about the rest,

but I only want one shot at this.

Second chances, tertiary lives, like photocopies,

a thin déjà vu. Sooner than we expect,

we run out of superglue to fix the fractures in our vision.

I only want one shot at this.

I want my bones to stay in place

when I am done with them.

Let my lips lie silent if they dare to argue.

I know what I am.