Sound in bitter townships

with a crack and a bloody bed sheet.

Home with a savage habit

calm, and an itch in the stomach

we beat the odds.

We are are seven for seven million

we’ve won the saddest lottery in the world

and the sky paid out

by playing out our eulogy to the sound of self-inflicted violins.

The angel choir sat in silence.

This is Virginia.

This is the sad sound of vain expression in the pine trees.

It’s honest and it’s careless

and it wanders down the main street

for everyone to see.

It’s squandered in silence

and it broadened and subsided.

There’s warmth in my bravado

but I choke inside the silo

we’ve hidden in.

It’s chased me away

with my iron bones.

Teeth wrapped in silenece

we chose the final bolt for ourselves.

We beat the odds.