i wake and i am desolate in my hope for that hour, as if crashed
is it only through the lenses of pain the proper things are magnified?
we squeezed all the liquid suffering into the ink of our poetry
turned the page as it was burning, to forget every single mark
where time is forged, a new hour was molten and hammered out
now the minutes will not bend, the future can no longer be closed
the pieces of us scattered out in the dirt: we grope the sharp edges
as if to assemble a soul, my soul, there is glue everywhere, drying
i thought i knew how i was put together, like my father’s watch
though even that i had pieces left over when crouched over it
sweating the small stuff, how could it possibly be so complicated?
and the new hour comes, and we are not ready, the eyes over us
...and there is booming laughter, the doom passed by, a new hope
“forgive me father, i have sinned,”: no more pain, please: just
or whatever. i understand a little of how these things work