Masticating razors

Fill in the margins of intentions
With bilirubinous sunsets
That look awe-inspiring from distances
But the closer you get
Barbs materialize within your being
The more you move
The more you prove everybody’s point
The one that you don’t “get” apparently
So yet, you rush to struggle to explain
While all else look at the reddening sky

What does it say?

It was in exchange for pencils for the school
Or maybe for a tractor for the farmers
Was it to put phone towers on a graveyard?
Might as well have been put there by aliens

From a rust factory for discounted prices
Held together by the last quarries of sinew
A bountiful harvest of ballistic thorns
Wrapped as rosary beads around this important post

Upright trees marked as deadwood
Lead from the paint leached into the soil
For all the pulp razed and pulverized into gloss
All that remains is a peculiar rorschach blot