★ ★ ★ ★
Image by Glenn Carstens Peters
so much rain, so much so that
the cataclysmic whorl of the sunflower,
the trill of the tanager, is forgotten.
this month of darkness cannot be forgiven,
even if brought to its knees
by that man-child, that brother, that friend.
the grief won’t budge, won’t let him emerge
from that gossamer wind
that carries him as he flies, his wings afloat.
on days when the sun won’t come out,
the cloud-whisperers keep secrets on his pillow –
simple missives to a reluctant poster boy,
whose spirit’s essence lingers in those dark eyes of longing –
a longing to fix that broken mirror,
when it no longer says what he wants to hear.
what scream lurks in the throat of the trenches
when the body is at war with itself, when the laughter
stops in its tracks, when the bells peal no more.
this short lifespan of a million joys, desires doesn’t last.
when can he finally stop craving what he won’t get?
because it is different now. the spout won’t turn off.
the river runs amuck across the pages of the atlas –
and he, a lone traveler, can’t find a place to fit in.
a place to call his own.
Dedicated to fragile souls everywhere, unique in their bravery and beauty, who sadly find only one way to escape cruel realities.