(An inarticulate war cry, justifications and arguments for attack.)
Sensation the overriding liable, extorting all victims prospect, courting each angle into every collision. Petals struggle open to blossom, each stem pushed through the ground, leaning their partners into facing the dew. Playing for playmates’ sakes, wearing colors suited for mourning, and shaking off obvious company alone. Did anyone feel the clouds fear dawn, turn briefly toward another, demand silence conform response?
(An evening flower bed brimming with morning glories.)
We know our consorts, their famished needs, fainting toward the east. Wanted these bodies under control, told these drops are not tears, afraid rain will pummel us to the ground. Vessels, once questioned, felled with their contents, spilling to the west. Without any feeling, deaf though sounds are only gusts of air, without maps, light, magnet or compass.
(An exploding battlefield collecting spent shells, lifeless bodies.)
Time is to erase our questions, insert chaotic discussions, or we’re cursing the charcoal taste of our selves evaporating slightly with rain. Every strike softens as it lands, begs petals to ask while shimmering, each stem trembling. An unknowing, mute orchestra blessed in constant intrigue, struggling to speak. First drop deduces reprimand, second annunciates our will, then more confuses any coherent wish.
(An array of tiny pools spilling over with nectar.)
Tears are assigned to build, formed by their edges, and encouraged to drop when their departure isn’t noticed. Soil was forced apart and tilled, spines trickling thin waterfalls into pools between cracks on leaves. Wind brushes us against each other, we occasionally spasm, and are moved to weep. These feet we can’t see, roots spreading in hopes to find interaction, have us convinced the others exist.
(An opening in the sky widens to Valhalla, itchy trigger-fingers.)
Once upon a burial, then repeated for the decay of your remains, the sky gathers our rage. Rumors fail reverie, presence is each body’s longing to collapse and lose our petals to the door. Seasons last until they become spells, fade into visions no one can recount, and are replaced by discord. Spades for emptying and filling decanters with honor, grudges hold long enough to never reconcile, our lives to yours.
(An un-seasonal cold spell accompanied by storms.)
New chore to remove the dead, dig holes to the appropriate depth, estimate the next rainfall.
Starlight: Eyes Shut
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This was posted to setup my poet’s protest, which is at the “3 Cries for Help” series of poems that follow this one. If you arrived here from elsewhere, please see the home page to know what you’re getting into, and be well.
