Poem 2

Whose kid is this?
Born in the afterbirth
How I love this after-hours crying foul
A blink and a breath away
Easily asleep on destruction’s doorstep
Wrung hands and furrowed fields
Beggarly beaten bloody by hunched-over screws
Stand up, eyes up, looking to the skies of rose gold
Barefoot on fortress walls, swimming in technology’s ashes
After the fall will be an asca— aca— asca—
What? What? What?