You used to be such a better writer, kid,
Back before your skin had turned to steel,
Before the world had thrown its punches
Straight into your guts and left bruises
That hardened into armor.
You used to plant flowers for the sheer
Vicariousness of it; it seems now that,
Having grown older, you have traded them
For perfect brown boxes, the contents of which you know
Down to the molecule. There is nothing of
The ghosts of your past in your words anymore,
Only the straightened spine, the metal of
The capital-T Truth.
There is still grace setting the world
On fire. Take off your shoes and feel its heat.