you’ll exist- at the end of my pen
the forearm of my brain
the nail flushed into my hinges-
hinges removed by giants with branches
gripped like pencils and you’ll exist-
past the smoke and mirrors mirroring the smoke
from my lips.
creation of god? maybe. existing in a white zone
of unforgivable walls spitting points of view
like an ice cream truck in a culdesac.
you’ll exist long past the shattering of the clock and sun
and past the falling of the gods
and the creation of the next-
beings to walk along side.
maybe they already are. questioning the questions as from a liars throat
and hold them high like a rope around our neck
yet
you’ll walk right past and a knife with the width of an anvil
set us free.
Saint's Muse 