Day eleven, I'm missing you
and I'm feeling like sinning,
maybe I should start from the clement beginning.

Day one, I see no more sun for I am alone
contemplating how I accrete age
and how many seeds I have sown.

Day two, palimpsest problems
weigh in heavy on my choices
and my mind has many voices.

Day three please don't look inside hollow me,
the pregnant wasteland of my heart
has been growing ruin from the very start.

Day four and out all my emotions pour,
I'm breathless from a sight of you
and my whole world returns anew.

Day five is crepuscular in nature, a perpetually playful night,
authored by your omnific fingers
and hidden behind the curtain, a sun just out of sight.

Day six, I've uncovered a skeleton making me love you even more
and I asseverate promises,
becoming blurred by family uproar.

Day seven is driven by a sensation of imbrication
and we know an end is coming,
lost in the easy salvation.

Day eight starts with our bodies huddled and our minds muddled,
you are a plagiary of my emotions
forgotten in loo of body illustration and soul cultivation.

Day nine is propelled by the intoxication of an end,
conclusion of what extent?
and filled with eristic thoughts of surrender to this utopian ascent.

Day ten and you're caught,
in my arms is where you ought to be,
and I keep hearing how just awakened you sought for me.

I rarely cry, and I cried in public today, many of you looked away.
The only sound I could make was a sigh, how many days were never lived?
Too many gone for a simple goodbye
the public was made to feel like a ****** to my tears,
but all I could think is "so much laughter was stolen".

It stuck with me like cold steeped megrims, or something deeper.
Think of those averting eyes, diabolic men’s whims and all those souls for the reaper.
I never heard the screams, or have seen those man created seams.
Huddled for heat and from the long day beat, can you really perceive?
I tried, and I cried today.
Thoughts like the ink permeate my soul and being too late, I grieve.

The numbers surround me, and do you really see?
For you its art, a thing of which you can choose to take part.
Responding to their urgent behest, would you have joined a protest?
If you hadn't, steeped deep in silent sin would you be able to live with yourself?
Think, could you have dug a pit for your kin?

I speak of these sorrows and dream thickly, of children burned and crying out sickly.
This is history, her story, our story, our horror, our creation in which men fight, finding death and glory.
I cried in public today and you may have looked, ashamed of my display.