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a breadcrumb trail through the palace of human frailty

John Sweet

we are a bloodsoaked army of one,
                            you and i,
not knights and not pawns ant ever moving
any closer to home

and we are not the kingdom
but the king

we are the act of murder
but not the reason

listen

our blindness is a choice

our leaders will die

their bodies will burn

no one cares in the end because
no one really needs them

and what if i gave you the knife to
cut out your own cancer?

is the pain a drug if you
learn to like it?

or this –

we are gods fucking
on the bathroom floor

we are immortal
until the day we aren’t

de chirico’s sunlight after a month of rain
and i stand in the
shadow of my father’s house

i live in the ruins of
everything i’ve broken out of spite

i sleep in the dirt beneath a
blanket of thorns and i
dream of my children sleeping

i teach them the myth of
someone else’s life and they
believe it to be my own

they believe me to be their prophet

they are both my
triumph and my defeat

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