Broken Things

Broken rings, broken things, telephones with no answering machines. Matches lighting sirens, hiding screaming faces, guns made of promises, mouths tied with laces. Girls broken slowly, men want to know me, why dont you show me, where this all begins. Therapy bills drowning in towering hills of last weeks kills and this weeks taped up garages. Law suits filed in colored pews, temples hidden inward, we were all racing towards collapse. Where's he at, that sacred tone, wheres he at, that phone sound blasts. Sirens fade as suns replay, those chins sink fast as hues relax. Barges of laughing windows, were towers of hidden sins, our neighborhood maddness through picket fenses cleanse. Binge worthy episodes of clashing dashing sirens, men sewed up worthy in pins of shops and lions. Signs and signs of traumatic lines, where are those sirens and telephone rings? Probably just hiding in those broken things.