No lyrics, no reasoning, no rhyme…to the dislocated shame.
I would tender her hand…if it were not for the indiscriminate pain.
What early appeal is there to habitual ache?
Has time sealed all wounds?
Held them in place like the well-defined lines that do not always save face.
Soon the circle will be broken.
No great power to offer…when and why.
Acts against my humanity, as I watch her die.
Everyday I am peppered with a loss…I cannot hold.
Everyday…my humanity a little less bold.
The dying art of some should be more prolific than another.
But the gods have spoken, ‘why bother.’