wph

My very favorite poem is an inarguably terrible one. I do not know its name and do not care to find out if it has a name.

The sun is pink, and the sky is green on the day that I am standing knee deep in perfectly still salt water. The tired marble floor of heaven is finally dissolving beneath my feet.

I looked up at the statue, and it looked down at me.

There we stood, unhappy wretches.

If we get scared, they have us in their pockets.

If we don't, all they have is blood.

And blood is not a weapon. 

From what I remember, it was born growing.

It was born hot, expanding, glowing,

and the people were made of gold 

and of fire.

And it kept growing, it kept burning hot, bright,

"So I was in English class, right," said the kid, "and the bell rang, and while I was switching classes, I got super thirsty, so I stopped at the water fountain, but then I remembered that this fountain is out of order and the only other one is in