Ryan Warnick Phd.

The crimson volley arches above the overpass.
Tumbling down gracelessly to mix with teardrops hidden in the grass.
Ballerinas in the concert hall balanced on a single toe.
Clinging to something moving ceaselessly upwards;
built in bullet proof glass.

Further afield families bicker over the dishes and the laundry,
amongst undulations speckled with aging oaks and juniper.
A-grade school districts, cyclists exhausting themselves between barbed wire;
one or two roads connecting to the lonely crowds.
Weapons ready.

There I stay. At a well along the first road.
Naked. Illuminated. With sunlight reflecting off of water from the earth.
Breathing from divergent pools of air,
and etching into the limestone: For the love of god