Our mind
Is the terminal illness
In a system
Which wants us
Dead

Believing aches
Are an answer
To explain
Such bleeding’s
Cause

With guilt
That drives us mad
And its need
For empty
Spaces

Leaving holes
Which beg fulfillment
At the cost
Of absent
Faith

Like wounds
From lack of dreams
Or a time
When hope
Had reason

For excusing
Veins left open
Whose tears
Would close
With age

And begin
Their healing late
Before God
Himself
Could notice

And muster
Courage willing
To redeem
His children’s
Chance

Exploiting
Chosen grace
As the leverage
Once deemed
Human

Now destined
For long penance
At the hands
Of meaning
Lost

Where blood
Is running tabs
On the debts
Of weak
Genetics

Taking gambles
With our faces
Every instance
Love
Is made

Within bedrooms
Guarding threats
Telling tales
Through sex
Indignant

Turning lies
Like spinning spiders
Caught in webs
No heart
Escapes

Among dangers
Woven thick
Threading knots
Which capture
Secrets

Hanging gossip
Beneath ledges
Dangling names
Whose sin
Is known

As we all
Reveal our end
By the silk
Of mortal
Needles

Gauging egos
As our compass
For the fact
There is
No cloth

Though these bodies
Fade so slow
And decay
Without much
Effort

While we choose
To cut our fabric
From the cure
Which rips
Too fast

Praying hate
And money spent
Tighten seams
Of seeping
Crimson

Pouring scarlet
From their stitches
Proving life
Is damaged
Goods

Stacking crates
Of ugly souls
Mangled flesh
And missing
Purpose

Yielding truth
To filthy numbers
From a math
Less cruel
Than fate.

– J. Pigno