Deep seas, closing wounds.
Endless paragraphs for more
pages to this uncertainty.
A time to hurt. A time to disconcert.
Another time for flowers to close
before petals can rush downstream,
dropped from a mother’s arms.
I can hold hope open like a book,
with its mere cover as a shield,
emptied of details from within.
I can burn no pages,
choosing to conceal tears
with something better to judge.
Are each of these solutions bright enough
while this world with its tragedies,
its maladies, cannot tell enough
when words seek to limit,
not to simplify?
Another chapter, one more twist
to someone’s arm to lose their access
to that next steppingstone,
that newest page.
Bleeding red, in dirtied foreheads,
bruises in colors of all shapes,
and with faces that weep a greater clarity
to bring an ocean out of false smiles,
while to force, an ailed man must reveal
his capabilities in a crippled setting.
If to succession, pride must be
a woman’s mantra for eternity.
Love must decide, upon a worn heart
who will be brought up,
whomever will arise.