does poetry belong?

does poetry belong

when I wake up to the rain?

there are blankets and walls

to keep me still

and warm

(or where I am)

when I fold myself like laundry

or paint another face

to only sell my soul for silence

and a bed before the end

does poetry belong

when I lose you

even in dreaming

because I turned too soon

or you were never more than my reflection

in your eyes?

does poetry belong

when my groceries and breathing fuel the child-ending machine?

the bath runs blood

and I can watch the masses burn all night

and only ever think of you

does poetry belong

if I stop running to or from

and human conscience dies in Vogue

but the livestream isn't on?