Carcinogens

You’re but a child, a flightless bird,
who grapples with the littered ground,
an afterthought, a quiet word.

When stars and skies and future blurred,
time left you mangled, torn, unbound.
You’re but a child, a flightless bird.

You’d twist and writhe, your voices slurred,
but tortured tongues would hush the sound,
an afterthought, a quiet word.

With restless veins, you quaked and stirred
to chase the suns and moons you’d found.
You’re but a child, a flightless bird.

Universes bent and spurred
beneath your dawn, an earnest bound,
an afterthought, a quiet word.

And futile ash took you, unheard,
till dusk had run your limbs aground.
You’re but a child, a flightless bird,
an afterthought, a quiet word.