A rose has lost its petals,
dark now, the color of wine opaque,
scatter lightly
amongst the garden’s grass.
A button stitched by
hand, not of thy maker’s,
but of a seamstress, known to me
through my neighbor’s son.
Whispers louder than
the room can bear,
silence, deeper than the chairman’s
takes hold of the crowd,
conveys all that can’t be said.

To write about what’s
right, everything —
the rocks
which make the soil,
emerge from the sea as a great
ship. Life, closer
to the sun.
Floating birds eclipse the ship,
the orange sky.
Static waves,
roll across the face of earth,
waves of light and water;
why, was this cognition to us given,
so that we watch the waves
but never ride them.
So that we may dream and
never leave our bed.
So that we may think,
yet lock the words in cages.

What’s the point then;
to live. We’re on this earth to live.

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