Zoe

Across my forearm lover, a number you might consider, it points to the others, your face lost in wonder, mine a perfect mirror, God has bourne witness, I feel myself crumble hearing them whisper, how the world suffers, in this illicit sliver, night winds sing forever, beyond our daily jumble, birds slake our days hunger, reeling over what is done, by fire and distant thunder, one unwashed sign above us, tells why we had to run, we prisoners walk under, some won't make sunset.