When
drama is the only answer and anger meets beauty I recall the following
question
clearly;
“Where
are the wings that dance about the edges of what I can see?
They
were so good at chasing away the shadows that haunt my corners,
I
miss the lace she held with thin, plastic thread, the type they called angel’s
hair...”
“She
traces the lines of sewing needles to find them if they go missing, all humming
a rhythm and stitching the seams of let go.”
Into
days and nights that collect and run down the panes of our windows with rain in
icy fingers and silver tongues
I
fumbled to slow and receive a fistful of branches handed in
simple
grey words that pleaded for the innocence of childhood and release
from
the responsibility intended for the chosen ones of the North.
I
check my grace at the door with my shoes to
wander
into a more delicate anger, deceptive in it’s play of discontent,
hidden
behind the trappings of a polite family’s training
His
shoulders are wide enough to be those of Atlas
Instead
he wears them thin from too much control over his looming maturity
He
will dry to ash in the depths of pity that he refuses to embrace and then
release
Chasing
after his own reflection when he should be strengthening himself
to
help carry the weight of the world.
