You want to be mad

and you are because

the white picket

fence is tinged yellow

with this ever present

age. Did you really think

that we’d all come

together, evolved

as we are with noise

plugged in our ears

and shades on our eyes?

We can’t see or hear one

another, animals dulled

in cages, throats raw

with the sound of ourselves.

The dust of us floats

from the pages when

we finger through the Word

and find the past, the present,

our future stained with ink.

But who needs written truth

with these bold erasures, wiping

clean our minds but staining

our hands with the blood

of our hearts?