They crack the safes
hidden in our portrait of communication.
an intercourse of social science,
flooding the streets of civilized city structures,
isolating outstretched pastures beyond urban diction.
We paint the portraits
of expressive thinking.
They map the blueprints
for oratorical robbery.
The rural fires of our desires are diminished.
The ashes scraped into our
six foot deep imagination asylums.
They stock coffins of our ideas
and do inventory on our intentions.
The sky box is shrinking slowly.
A blanket is draped over in refusal.
We stand inside
The sun sinks behind the dirt piles
crafted by spade shovels
that tear away at the grey soil,
like the escape artists
that tear away at our grey matter.
Anchoring our escapes,
we stand in the burial grounds of our words.