They are so loud,
soft figures that crowd
crying out loud,
and sometimes
sobbing softly.

I can see them.
I can almost feel them.
Edging me away
with their powerful
feelings.

Sorrow splits my being.

A sign pleads
for something to eat.

A woman blames
herself
for the pain
inflicted
by someone else.

A child scratches
deep stiches
into her heart
and her arm.

A friend feels
like a failure.

An old lady
sits waiting
for people
who won’t
come to see her.

A mother still cries
at nights
after someone shot her
teenage daughter.

They intrude
exuding all of their pain,
and push me back
into my square room
were I am safely
sequestered away
from the shame of
failing to save
everyone.