and in the moment of silence,
i search for my forsaken voice,
buried somewhere,
far and adrift,
under the summit of sufferings,
the rivers of rage,
under trampled dreams,
under the mottled page,
the voice so aloof,
i have forgotten it so well,
the past of calamity,
only if i had a voice; i could tell

there's a world inside your mind
and it wants you to find
a place for others,
without changing
the bookshelves
the music
or the way that you walk through the door.
It might be the means of replacing
the fear which stops you from living
and giving
and laughing
as yourself.

Have you forgiven them yet?

The moon,
for it gives you out no secrets.

The stars,
for their beauty
which often hurts your eyes.

The sun,
for it never dies, unlike us.

The dead,
for their silent smile.

Have you forgiven them yet?
I ask

myself.

You spoke about leaving
So often and for so long
That I didn't believe
You'd ever be gone

endlessly she looks on
lashes never flinching
no lids weighed by metal
to blink as you rock her
imaginary tears to fall

a little box freshly made
smells of melted plastic
made by wrinkled hands
with eyes shut tight
droplets soiling the exterior

the night her wisp of a candle
dimmed and turned to smoke
i held her in my arms
knowing she couldn't hear me
yet still sang that lullaby
the one that played each time
you pulled the string attached
to her back

and when i peaked down at
the window of her entrapment
my weepy eyes reflected on
her cracked porcelain skin
i imagined her mint condition
just like the day
i brought her home