We have buildings and they are hungry.
We are taught that we are the ones
but we have been deceived.
They don’t know what you think.
They have a key to the shelter.
In the beginning there was a sign.
In the beginning there was a lot
but we forgot
and then they built a shop there.
We got lost like sheep
in the underbrush
trying to get out,
get away from the builders,
get away from the snakes.
When we were sick with the world
we needed more than just a little bit
of helpful people who are inky.
The ink is the blood of pens, of printers,
The words of relapse or release.
Either way they are shedding their skin.
I’m raising myself,
unwinding the same way
that they aren’t.
The snakes in my head turn towards the light.
The scales fall off the closer I get.