Words, II: Poetry

Such thoughts cross the mind
in shredded ribbons
beneath a beaten moon
that weeps tears on its shadowed half

And there the stars
shine with mournful glow
over a land torn apart by
its own friction
and the rubble sighs with
screams for help

These idle witnesses
look on as the world keeps
spinning on its axis
through tragedy and strife
Unhinged through its own mechanisms,
bound through its compassion

What if I said to you
that these feet have not walked
enough miles
to ever shed enough tears
for our people
of every hue and shade and creed
that cries as I
over these senseless things?

What if I asked you to be
the witness to the eight
murdered in Virginia,
the twenty-three in Northern Mexico,
or the scores of in twilight death
in every hospice that our shores could know?

Would you run away from these
exposed veins that run with
death's elixir,
blur your eyes until you could
no longer spy the lingering
touch of grief
and still pretend that
you can keep going without
turning back to your brothers,
your sisters?

We are here in this comedic tragedy,
this dramatic musical
where everything is blazingly alive
and superficially hollow
at the same time
yet somehow neither one at all

But as I make my way home
beneath these same stars,
under this same battered moon,
I know that I am not God
and nor would I wish the position
of being the one to hear
such tormented tides
that only I can understand...

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