Bruised Instruments

deities saunter on this elevated ground,

their shoes: the view of our stalled eyes.

while our bodies friction against the surface,

with dirt, with dried blood.

“sing for their mercy!” we exclaimed,

as if our throats were never scraped.

only to receive rusted alms on our palms

while papers in rainbow pile in your wallets.

hear our hoarse melody of plea.

gaze the blind playing the bandaged flute.

feel the scarring fingers plucking wires.

listen to the tune of constrained cries.

this is not the stairway to heaven;

we are not your angels in harmony.

this is not the bridge between two worlds;

for we are the contrast, never the division.

this is not the stadium of strained musicians.

this is not the home of lone forefathers.

this is the skyway of bruised instruments,

of wrinkles, and of empty fastfood cups.