Yellow-Brick-Road

(<---Turn on Yellow Brick Road by Angus and Julia Stone)
They are in the ruin of a city, overcome with the heat of twenty thousands searing hearts and souls.  Battered bodies laid to rest on a street of con and a bed of crete.  Gray blankets of ash encompassing the shells of what used to be. 

 They are in the hands of men, red Swastikas stitched on their cuffs with the blood of a homosexual.  Of a Jew.  They are airborne, from the filthy hand of War into the pane of glass that dear Johann has repaired six times over, only to shatter seventh. 

 They are a town in Missouri known for a black man and a gun.  They are the dialysis, analysis and paralysis of a situation, the kind that calls for riots.  Eyes stinging from a green tinted something-like gas and ears shot and bleeding from a noise that sounds almost like Grief has ripped off his mask and wailed loudly; loud enough even for the policemen to hear.

 They are torn out of my childhood home.  Replaced by stones that were meant to look rustic but instead, making it seem like a cheap, wannabe replica of Roman architecture.  They are in the backyard where my father rose a swing-set and how we evoked one another, as children, to fly.  The kind of flying where you either land, or let your legs buckle under you like they were made of rubber. 

 They are the belief that nothing is constant.  Nothing is solid.  Even though they are their own discontented version of something that people find to be durable, they are never enough.  Stability and durability, apparently and transparently, there are too many aspects of a redbrownyellowgray brick.

They make my dad’s eyesight fade and maneuver objects to see the same way a trombone player plays a tune.  Farther, closer, closer, farther.  They make teenage hearing low and adults perceiving high, hence the reason they ask us to turn down the music all the time.  They are in everything.  In the heart you had when you were Cinderella for Halloween in third grade.  In your sister’s old journals that you found two years ago and read on occasion to feel good about yourself.  They are in the past, because you see, my dear old friend; the past is the only thing that is concrete.  And I lost my mind long ago.