poem: a new age

we write of syrup-blood and broken bones

on the streets of sunless cities. there is nothing left to pray for; yet, 

and still, 

and always 

you drink from a liar’s fountain – the chorus kneels, sways, chanting love and devotion to an unseeing god, as if this world remembers the word communion

– t. bennett ; @raggedhearts 

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