At Mourning

No matter where my gaze diverts,

under each stone or divulging chasm

there is no treasure, but grief.

As if this pen I now hold shattered,

glops of oozing ink trickling on my hand,

streaking and staining at whim.

So it is with the hearts of these who tally.

In an age of lessened death

the mourning has not quieted.

In corruption we work, in corruption we sloth.

Heartache resting upon our shoulders

as chains thicken with the compounding time,

that comes from our misunderstood vastness.

They who yield the sword is feared,

but he who holds attention captives the world.

“Give no war!” the thronging cries,

for they have enough within themselves.

The old grieve the genre of the world they depart,

for their problems have outlived them.

The middle aged grieve the genre of the world they have,

for their dreams were swallowed long ago.

The young grieve the genre of the world they’ll inherit,

for they have received no love,

and in turn have never learned to how to give it.

The procession marches on deafly and obscured,

as neighbor doors shut, blinds darken.

Spirits starve sucking on the finite, dry bones,

yet the marrow is tough to negotiate

and we know not the gardener’s name.

Fattened calves sick with disease.

Communities deprecate not from confrontation,

but oddly the very lack of it.

Bestir oneself and hear these words!

Give peace for stones and compassion to grimace.

Be not pallbearers for the morrow,

but lend thy ear, thy voice, give song.

Straighten the back from crooked braces,

send out the anthem of healing and mercy.

I alone am but one pebble but together,

yes together, we can dam the sorrowing tears.

The oncoming end prolonged.

Put in thy beauty and come out!

I place not a weapon in thy hand,

but instead a loaf, a rose, a compassionate droplet.

With such, go, heal the world.

For as we multiply, they diminish.