For you who called for a moment,
One filled with seasons of house lightning,
Storms booming in the eyes of sofa cushions,
Splitting a room from chandelier thunder clouds,
This hilltop hierarchy has made mountains of molehills,
Barnacled itself unto the names of our forefathers,
Made porcelain tears in the eyes of mothers,
Do you not see all the spotlight in this tragedy?
All this powder and masquerade,
Simply to be seen whole again