Why does doubt paint blue rings
beneath my eyes, and stain my skin?
Why does my spine assume failure
Why do my lips flirt with the sky;
why do I try to lasso beauty with such a pitiful rope?
Where is my sling
Where is my stone, my gun?
Where is the weapon with which
I may fight this apathy
that feels like sleep in my limbs
that loosens my brothers smile
that kills my neighbors daughter
this pen is scrawny and hardly
seems able to ink out
or ease this plague that
infests my generation
This giant
this ogre
this beast
this death that assumes
a million faces, that borrows mine