Nola_hall

The four gas stations on each of the corners

Hover over the town,

But they don’t define it.

It doesn’t define us,

Neither does the churches

With clipped voices and narrowed eyes.

Four more months till the lines of work-

The coding of my life in word form-

Molds into a steel cage.

The cage's walls lined with a maze of puzzles,

Answers tucked between my ears.

Is it a bad idea to cry?

To cry at the sign of light's fleeting moments?

They end as soon as you wipe them away,

fogginess spilling in a soliciting manner over

To solitude's arena.

The matches that burn,

It's hard to find a balance

Between continuity

And the every growing weight that

Tirelessly

Chips the paint away.

Wait–no,

A vehicle of travel that’s exhaust

Is exhausting to clean up.

To scrub from my floors,

My hills,

My caves.

It is a challenge no one has attempted

I listen to each word of my country,

Each act that fights to get rid of everyone I care for.

Each word that our government cleverly boasts

About how they belong to us.