We root ourselves

in front of their snapped shut

slabs of concrete. 

Our dreams lie inside,

unassembled. Some miscarried

by our missteps.

Others impaled

by infidelities

within ourselves.

We crave time wasted,

unable to strike a

Hadean bargain.

Birds, strapped with unborn

opportunities, weave nests

through our knotted branches

of flesh. They fly

away, squawking in droves,

scapula wings soaked

in disappointment.

For each misstep, for each dream

abandoned, for each

path we failed to take,

they had orchestrated

from the beginning.