Graffiti

I no longer know what to write on the walls of this city.
Words die stillborn in my mind, but I
dare not cut them open and become politic.
I am so sick of this that I could scream
until sound dries up and my voice
becomes the wind, harsh in your ears.

In the mist of it all God glows
and flames without ceasing.

I find myself metaphysically
wrinkle-free: dying without creasing.