We made our nest from the sticks and stones,
our broken bones,
and the words that always hurt us.
We made our home on the ruins they left us,
we left our foot prints in the ashes,
and etched new constellations in the black stars.
We worship on the highest heap,
screeching the name against the wind.
Crows are circling in pale green skies,
waiting for the fall.
Aren't we all?