Don’t build any more things
with your heart’s hands.
There is no more space in the wall
and we’ve run out of frames.
Don’t you realize
they’re all going
to fall apart,
The floor is littered
with countless remnants
of creations
you’ve fashioned
out of blood, sweat and tears.
Don’t you see
there’s nothing here
that isn’t broken?
Aren’t you tired yet
of being cut open
by the same double-edged knife
held by so
many different men,
of sewing yourself back up
so you could be ready
for the next one?
The crowd has left.
The museum is empty
and there is no one
to listen to stories
of your latest sacrifices.
The recent critiques
have spoken:
love is now outdated
and nobody buys it
bottled extra-virgin
They want it flavored
with something less pure.
The last generation
has died out,
those like you
who could drink it whole.
Your faith disgusts
all of them that are left;
they claim
is a disgrace.
So don’t
busy your heart
with any more heroic acts

you’re willing to rebel
and go against the grain
of disillusionment
and join us
in the honest treachery
of printing misleading names
on the boxes
and giving them love,
unadulterated love,
right when they’re convinced
they’ve given away
something of themselves
in exchange for something
entirely different.