I don't want your love,
I don't want your sympathy,
I don't want to hear you talk,
I want ***,
I want to hear you say my name
I want to make you into poetry,
I want danger,
I want to sin.

****.
are you uncomfortable?
                 tell me
                         do you feel sick?
****.
i will say it
        over and over again
                    each time louder
                                and more angry than the last
****.
repeating, repeating, repeating
                                 until you decide to
                                                    take action
                                                            and stop blaming the victim
****.
does it scare you?
            do something about it
                       scream about how enraged
                                          you are that this is even an issue

That ever elusive
clear blue

water we chased
was actually

cloudy from rain and
agitation

goodbye friend
I feel I hardly knew
you

there's so much
to be said

but

no time
and not enough
language

to express
the proper sentiments

of such parting sorrow

Whit Howland © 2020

The unravelled tapestry
The song sung unaccompanied
The unfinished symphony
The valley wasted
On the artist
The dreamer too tired
To sleep
The writer picking only
Last will and testament
From a lifetime
Of words
All have joined
The ranks
Though they will find
Neither death nor
Glory here,
For this is the time
To put our backs
Into it,
To put clothes
On our backs
And food on
The table,
And we are all
The poorer for that.