But then our history is sad, we never really get back home, we’re spirits roaming the street. Humans when they’re done with us, when they’ve ripped apart all that matters to us, the toss aside into the wind and then we become dirt, we become part of what the hate.
Rivers are made of delicate
unions, like life and dread
molded into a vessel
for passing bodies: flotsams,
floating ferns, floating seashells,
bodies leaving
a drowning soul holds onto anything for rescue/
you craved for a blade the barber used
to get you a new look.