Future revisions
can’t drag forward
our glow,
not until history’s
burning pages
are forgiven.
No brand new
speech of our days
can erase what harm
broke our minds
into the pieces
we still collect.
Looking down,
we remain
dropping the same
rebirthed weight.
Looking up,
clouds are forming
for their monochromatic,
state of disdain.
We’re finding
that we’ve not stopped
our surge, our drift
towards a lighthouse
we imagined.
A slate can’t be cleaned,
an ocean can’t deliver
our pain onto
a different shoreline,
until the agony
begins to captivate,
not to instigate.
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