Wafting

[bluepressure]

Wafting slowly, falling tightly,          
the drops glide on the perfect sky.   
Their silence talks of darker days,     
ugly mornings, a star, an eye.      

Past faces, we stare at their lips               
and exclaim innocence is grim.
They fall desperately to our hands,             
blind to the stones beneath them.             

With disgrace, they tumble through our fingers,      
so we tell them they are loved.                               
While our faces are hidden in dirt,                       
our violent fingers, a stub.     
                                 
Resurrected and snuffed,                                  
seized from the stench of their peace.           
We worship their skin.                                        
Caress their throats. Hallow our grief.