We are chasing rainbows
and catching dreams,
hurdling the unfortunate
who sleep on our streets,
as our concrete pathway
is a washed with fear.
Christ will climb down from his cross
to cleanse faces, drowning in tears.
We are parking the dead
into a single file,
building a bonfire,
stacking a pyre.
With rainbows stolen
and hope all but vanished,
souls are being delivered
in a brown paper package.
There is not enough ground
to bury the dead,
every footprint is reserved
to build a monument instead
to carve out on stone and brick
and on an ocean of glass,
a façade of falseness
that for decades will last.