What am I to do?
What am I to do?
What are we to do in the aloneness of survive?
Screens up, bags packed on that old tendonitis shoulder. That old to the wheel soreness. The queue wraps upon itself and its the same old faces by the time we are at the front, by the time we are at the end looking back at that old tempered glass just waiting for a blast, holding all that old energy, just waiting for a blast.
What are we to do?
All the pillars, reinforced, are burning slow inside with rust. It takes its toll to be alive - did that face just say? There is a final rest in being gone, but here we are moving , moving along. And that other face - is it not as tense as glass, as weak as rust?
Us survivors we survive and wonder at reasons why, or what or how, or even who - who will survive us now?
A bank of fire is rust sped up. A shattered glass is tension let. And these old bones must hold up skies, hold up the whole old firmament.
What are we to do?
Take off your shoes, you're at the front, pass through.
These uniforms hold nothing back - each face the fractured wonder and the grief of survive and why? and why and why and why
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