Blamed on Fever

Angled backwards
Arms to sun
With certain trees
Forming barriers
Of newborn fetus
Spread on landscapes
Where we build castles
Made of sand
With glass doors
And nothing inside
When every word is true
Little children speak volumes
About backstabbing
Deadbeat
Unloved
Powersuits
And coffee grounds
The things we don’t see
From five stories up
But there’s always an exit
Just four stories below