real apex
Once again these ears of mine open.
Once again to the clashing of the skies,
to the tears of sorrow
to the quarrels of men
to the fire of rounds
that once enticed my mind
now tearing my heart once again
tearing me from my modest world once too many times.
I object!
I reject!
Yet this dreadful dread dejects me.
It stoops over me
over my papers
over my world.
It dyes it all black with its ink that stems from misery
that stems from the people who pursue this misery
from the people who cultivate that misery-
why would you track these miseries into my world?!
My world of tranquility.
So allow me to plead.
A plea to the skies:
the stars wish to see
our planet.
I don’t mean the false clouds.
Not the metal shadows,
or their exploding shells,
nor the grungy waters.
Don’t say the barren lands we plucked of their lush,
I mean OUR planet.
My world sounds nicer
A plea to the tears of sorrow:
where are our heroes?
Won’t you lull our tears?
Won’t you comfort our sorrows?
Will it hurt to try?
Where is that empathy?
That empathy which you sang to us
from birth to dawn till now?
Would you do it for a dollar?
My world sounds nicer
A plea to the quarrels of men:
do your ears not ring
from the endless fires
of rounds that you
swore are for the dreadful—
who hear that question too
and say it's for the dreadful
so I wonder
who is dreadful
or are we all dreadful
shall we all bear arms
at ourselves, at our dread?
My world sounds nicer
My world sounds nicer indeed.
The skies will never stop clashing
the tears will never stop falling
and the quarrels will never stop erupting in fires.
I hear it now once again.
Tearing my heart—once again,
tearing me from my modest world,
of characters that thrive
in whimsical places
I dream of every day,
tearing me from my modest world once too many times.
A poet’s plea:
Please tighten my blindfold
and let me fall back to my modest world.
My world of tranquility.
smoky spindle
wind axle