This Transcendence,
is far from,
coincidental.
Brushing burnt pieces of flesh,
from our our shoulders.
Incinerated from the fire,
that once (still) burns between us.
We call ourselves,
Survivors.
We call ourselves,
Saviors.
We call ourselves,
Preachers
We are anything but;
A legacy of sorts.
Residue, debris and remnants
of the movements we shared,
left over for our feasting.
But we will remain,
Unrightfully,
Starved.
Walking forward,
with the ashes of lust,
on our cheekbones,
highlighting our faces like,
expensive rouge.
Flawed beauty, damp fingers
and eyes,
Stroll out of the havoc we left,
The marring we can't seem to clean up.