Sitting in a chemical junction.
Surrounded by gabbling mistresses.
Trophying their youth within slender hands.
Surrounding their life with useless objects,
useless pronouns.
A useless message within thundered tears
but alas I sit in their presence.
I feel anxiety at the thought of breathing
the same air
the same stars,
the same moons,
the same galaxies.
The dust of our ancestors
providing defeat.
The dust of our dreams,
sweet victory.
For I do not find solace in the perfume of lilac.
The perfume of traitors.
But I do find excitement and belonging.
Surprised?
I am no liar.
I am just as damning as my ancestors.