The Shape of Something Gone.

If love was our religion,
and hope our
common tongue,
we’d burn for superstition,
for what we both did wrong.

Just godless apparitions
in the shape
of something gone.
The god of more ambition,
the devils in our lungs.



The desert sounds,
the sand is red,
I’m desperate now
for Egypt’s bed.

The salt behind,
I’d follow suit,
I’m desperate now
for Sodom, too.

The lost and found,
the buried dead,
I’m desperate now
for what was left.

A weathered town,
impending doom,
I’m desperate now
for something true.