E Cache La Poudre St

At the beginning
they paid homage
with big words
and bloated checks.

They thanked us for our service,
even blessed the coffins
lay at their hooded feet,
as the hordes stood amazed,
the rankness foul in the air.

The steely scent 
of the children they slaughtered 
runs heavy and red
in the avenue, on
East Cache La Poudre Street

and what we lost tears itself apart
again, and again,
weeping in its rotten core.

Its pain, its art. 
It has afflicted us all these long years,
and the crimes go unchecked as

I strike at the board, push out of the box
and found dodging coffins a worthy living.

So, they chased me out of the library,
out of their abattoir. 

I play with facelessness,
and the fat helps. 
I write, I scribe
for this New Testament
where we commune 

and call forth from the cold dank earth,
to the keepers of what innocence we had,
that it was never worth it.

No. 
In no world, no dream, no fading light
was it ever worth it.  

It was all over,
the day we stepped foot on
East Cache La Poudre Street.