the mountains artificial

our indifferences that slip up under the titans of our imagined like streets are
the mountains artificial-they just crawl back odd and lacking method,sick,
or flaunt bomb superstitions,
they speak in depraved tones of their own selves from their seats
but nothing is heard over the wail of want and repeat

who can see the skin of nations running down into water
it pays it paid it is paid in the end over the fight of arms and leg's land
tripping falling looking up from the leaves
who knew who knew that the lips were covered in tress and

the mountains artificial, the tensions of every their own-minds all impressions
a dead head end up red and black and all the colors of the sun

we pass or jump or make a line
and you looked good to yourself-everything you said,with all your encompassing,
all the world was lovely,fine,
and another childhood as such,
glass in tall ghosts and effort dead in the streets, you don't speak,
laying there starting up at not much,
dreamt far spreading cracks and attainable peaks