Will you bear witness to what I suffer
Held in the life of a woman
Cross-legged on the sidewalk
Incoherent in my grief and ignored
Will you bear witness?
Time is a strange thing
A story we tell to make sense of events
The crack of a slap on her whiplashed cheek
The yellowing of bruises and dandelions
Whitening hair, receding gums
Ring upon ring of an evergreen tree
The change is unstoppable and
All love mingles with grief
With whole cycles
What shall we do in the face of it
We who know time, no longer young
(If ever we were young, born old)
I do not know
I look to the river
Leaves quivering in Autumn
Sky so blue it hurts to see
Water whorls carrying petals
We will burn, return to grave earth
And grow again as part of another
Such it is
Such it will be
Some spark brighter as the days grow darker,
Beautiful torches lit as the world gets ugly.
My friend, you burn too fierce for your own health.
My spitfire comrade, you rant against the system,
You glow like a warm hearth in the rain.
Our doctor darts around lightening the burden.
One kind heart shines like a candle in a window.
The mourners on the hill stand rose-gold in the sunset.
The singers around the massive drum in Kitigan Zibi
Strike the ear as a bonfire strikes the eye.
It gives me hope. My friend, you give me hope.
I will feed it with the glee of a pyromaniac.
Wildfires rage in the dying forests; we rage back,
Sparking bright as the days grow dark.
Quick message of hope and resilience to brighten your day :)
I am not guilty,
Nor created to be guilty;
Although I am human
You make me wilt.
I do not understand what it is
Keeping me up at night.
Is it the noise of your passing?
Wyrd forged me iron-sinewed,
Worthless, hard, and proud.
Regret nothing - in quick time it passes,
And you cannot shame me
With the guilt you wish I felt.
Why should we allow for chronic victims?
Your tears are warped power,
Merciless and violent in their falling.
Therefore, guilty or not,
I must consider myself absolved.
Meets yours on the cigarette byways
Floats from the mike in airwaves
Croons deep velvet in your ear
Swirls down the brooding glass
Try to find mine across the room
Move on, babe, move on
A dame like that
Black-and-white grain and flicker
Dream on, dreamer, dream on
They don’t make ‘em like this anymore
I imagine this as a slow jazz song crooned by a chain-smoking flapper in a speakeasy. No, just me? Alright, well... guess I'm a sucker for a smooth voice. ;)