Where A Hammer Is A Flea

The songs we sing are samples of a central whirligig
Unfocused on battalions of unfulfilled wishes
Doubling our constellations with less false stars
And moons that give a damn.
 
We wrinkle the expanse with prayers that joyless go
And stun the fathoms of our grief with unbelievable laughter
swimming in gin and absent photos of the last thing
We Loved.
 
While something is cruel… yet there is the miasma of our constant suspicion that we are Loved by something more cold than forgiveness
with wandering eyes that see you always
as a light where a hammer
is a flea,