full of trumpets

being able to lift your chin and smirk for the camera

doesn't make you bullet proof or superhuman 

grow, grow, leech, vine

the ego is still as temporary as skin

even the grandest of it 

eventually

burns

there is, though, a subtle body of love

that outlives the lines of your fleshy meat

it is full of secret wishes

as simple as kindness or the rhythm of an encouraging drum

it is full of trumpets 

and emptying breaths

and tears that cascade

down salty cheeks 

into the corners of upturned lips