CONFESSION ZERO

Of their time, the goal was set by cruel decree, strident air inside the darkness, makeshift home, the winter birds in their towering cage, peering out at all the swagger of green, ground level feeding under neon strobe where filled yellow taxis and fancy blue suits jingle turnstile iciness against the ancient use of this globe. This is where children dream, dirt and cardboard cushioning their hunger with cold and fierce eyes, holding them close, kissing their thinning red lips, and the concrete humming low, echoing, hungry beasts marching toward their grief like a serenade of giants rising out of the fiery ash,  Brontes, Steropes and Arges reaching up in fury with brightness, thunder, and lightning. They rise not for the hordes of sleep-tattered children, they rise for the noise made of coldness, their heated hands wrapped in lava with the reaping of the unkind upon their breath. They’ll seek the cultivators of gloom, the progenitors of war and the ravenous well-to-do so there mi