The rain falls as do the bodies in faraway lands and as my heart sinks and the mist that escapes my mouth hangs in the air like a ghost, the book with my poems in slips from my fingers to the ground and lands in a puddle. With the pages soaked and the words dissolving, I’m momentarily saddened, but the poems are about a girl who doesn’t exist anymore, and even though she once stole my heart, it doesn’t burn as it did, so maybe it’s best just to let go. Maybe it’s time to find a new muse- time to ignite myself so I can burn just how I used to. The streets are strange, as our the trees that speak of so many yesterdays that remind me of the man I no longer am. This version of what I am- it no longer seems vital, so maybe the shedding of skin will reveal a version that burns far brighter. Turning my face to the sky, each droplet of rain feels like a kiss and how I miss being kissed by someone who knows the score. In Syria, they nail bodies to poles and cut out the hearts of their enemies. In Brazil, they hack away with machetes until one by one the limbs of victims appear like islands in seas of blood as sparks dance upon concrete like tiny little devils. In America they have Trump, and in England, we have feral beasts with no hope nor knowledge of what is precious or sacred. The world is cruel- it’s dark, and it’s fearful, and despite the love we carry, the fear keeps spreading. It chews and it chews and it spits out more and more savages that will do whatever it takes to avoid glimpsing the light. How easy it is to become like them. How easy it is to give in and embrace the machine that keeps on bleeding. We are damaged and beaten and bruised, but we will always be beautiful because to be beautiful lifts us far away from the hands of those who cave in and even though we fall and even though we suffer, the love in our veins makes us more than human. It makes us something they will do whatever they can to butcher because the longer we keep breathing, the more we shall rise and the uglier they shall become.