Butcher’s Block

I hear the old voices,
of terribly fanciful frauds,
and find no reason to rejoice
when children speak of God.

We would bury their heads
deep in the dirt,
with our spiritual dead
and pray for their rebirth,

Praises for the dead
are curses for the living,
in the same breath said,
traditions become misgivings.

And it’s a long walk to the grave,
which we all go,
trying just to save
the only things we’ve really owned:
our two idle hands,
and our bones.