I said it out loud, and I never do.
That’s when you know it’s bad
That’s when you hold on to something until it’s done.
How do you summon the hours before and the bright morning of hope, when the waning sky light overshadows the hazy row of ill?
You search for cups of pain to bathe in, that resemble reasons that make the sister and mother wail for the broken body of a son and brother.
You settle on the woes of the bereaved and victimized for the tangible currency that exchanges helplessness with evidence.
Where do I go to unbury the burden of nameless attackers that strike when joy stayed too long?
No long ago, twirling on a dream was the distance that marked progress in real time, without the residue of ashy debris.
Suddenly the filters evacuate, and all that remains is the symbol of hallowed vengeance for misshapen dues.
I am clean. I am sober. I am unclothed and soapy with cleanness.
Yet the starkness of pure emotions is a gutted rhythm that should arrest the heart.
But I can’t quote this without end.
So I breathe.
