Short-Story Poems

Victims Still

We see cracks on our footsteps
for we hold a heavy heart,
We trace pain with our fingertips
under our own made up scars,
A broken art as we named it
it's safe to say they are ours,
And we say this damage is good
'Cause it's the end of every start,

We wander on empty streets
under the lonely midnight moon,
With coats to keep us warm
instead of skins-- bare and blue,
As we walk closer the distance grows between me in you,
We know this damage is big
something we can't undo,

We hold each other's gaze
and seconds feel like years,
Words pour out of our eyes
but our lips-- we keep them sealed,
The steps halted in silence
and we stand there with our fears,
Boy, we make it this far
and the aftermath has been real,

Funny we call ourselves survivors,
but now--

we seem to be victims still.