does it matter who does the weeping?

rain spits it’s fury on those who died before their grave was complete

at the wedding they were throwing food stamps instead of rice

half made wishes from half finished homes feel their way through city streets

darkness kisses bloodied knuckles as trapped minds search for a feeling they will not find

politicians wrap their fingers around the necks of children

as men in cubicles with gunpowder on their lips consult the stars