Evening

Silhouettes of tombs stare

from outside the glass
under the night sky

Of-course they want the glasshouse,

but we the tomb,

They want a bloody stain

and we the tools

They want rewards,

we, the journey.

We would not have left it there,

if we could shrink before the things we want-

become you,
build without destroying the other,
if we knew there was no second.