Millennial

They bled dry the branches,

leaving no fruit on the trees,

while we named the cracks

they tried to paint over.

Decades of waking up

to sirened lullabies,

and they wonder why we love

the color gray.

Shrapnel has become the rosaries

we hold with bloodied knuckles,

while we pray

with rusted,

tired,

psalms.

We can't afford to go mad

with pockets emptied

of change.