statues

little feet push against pavement.
it scorches their soles, makes them melt.
like glue they stick to asphalt
that cuts their toes, reaps dirty lacerations.
shadows bend and change,
slaves to a changing sun
which rains hatred down upon
the adherent little bastards.
a sea of land and sky is
wedged between them and their freedom.
dirty little cut up feet
push against cruel pavement.
they spread their wings and
flap flap flap
but their feathers are only whispers,
shreds of forgotten hope and
nasty rumors that stick to ears.
i forgot when their chains were forged
from the sweat of their own brows
but still they stand on faltering tip-toes.
morbid concrete pins them down;
it swallowed their hope long ago,
turned sweet flesh into granite.
they may still stretch and yearn
and push off the ground with their little feet.
but all the angels have turned to statues.
no prayer can save them now.

--

this is really about, i guess, my own atheism.