Hands made of delicate necessities
hovered in pockets of sauntered gratitude
Cold expression - hate that phrase –
too generic for a girl of 16.
Man made of hostile intentions
wrapped in a worn face of 32 years
gently staring at the blue moon
****** with the desire of washed off anger.
Cries of impeccable distaste run through the air
whip her hair into her mouth
spits all too precariously into the manmade dirt.
It's supposed to make sense - this - this war
the bodies - buried – breathing
half awake with the intention of survival,
of listening,
of passing on some kind of importance
to some menace of a next generation.
She catches herself in a hiccup of solitude
The man watches the blue moon
It's supposed to mean something - the blue moon
supposed to make you think,
want something,
understand the unknown,
understand why there is fighting,
why her brother is dead.
But a blue moon means nothing to a cold face.
Split amongst anger
Run past the world
Fall down
Carelessly
No. Not carelessly.
Purposefully.
Some kind of purpose –
just keep telling yourself this. Please.
Anger.
Can't waste that emotion.
Not on her. Not on this. Not on him.
Silence.
It's too maddening. Too loud.
In all of its soft intentions.
So scream. Why can't you?
It will break up the world, even if it is only your own.
Drown yourself in it.
But you know how to swim.
Well, make yourself forget.
But you can't.
Because there is something about survival that is inherently good.
