Everything we touch turns not to gold,
but to cheap platinum, silver in the earth,
and rubble rubs the skin of wishes past
likes lamps under the desert city’s dust.
We walk a line that blurs with every step,
and every time we move, foundations shift,
one foot to the right and then one to the left
until we fall below to barren, empty crypts.
If we were all we were and nothing more,
would anything be wasting in this hollow way?
Would the seas and stars and wishes of the past
by silent, bruised by those youthful window panes?
Music stands would surely not be weapons used
to cast away the cobwebs of our ever- wasting tombs.