spirits underneath an artificial blue sky

the boards in the house are loose
some are rotting away
others have been peeled back
the black mold
has filled their chests
there is no breathing room
but we still live here

the walls have been
cracked like smiles
by angry fists and clumsy
kid hands
i have written on these walls
an unfinished epitaph

stains mark the walls
like liver spots
some are chipped and showing
the true color underneath
i hate the color
it is too blue
as we sleep underneath
our artificial sky

no one cleans anymore
the holes have taken over
so often we disappear
no obligations
we cover them with rugs
and hideous couches
forgetting the spirits underneath

we still hold this house together
we manage to keep the doors locked
and use the antique dresser
with only so many handles
to hold onto
these wounds we ignore
plug up with tissue
hide it behind posters
and we are okay
as long as the white world
does not peek in
because we have been naked
in our savagery
for far too long

it would be better
if we still lived in teepees
there are only two holes
one on the top
in which we can escape
into the stars like smoke
instead of falling
through the ones
that are all around our souls
making us condemned
unfit to live in