Friday, October 23, 2015

This is not a poem

This is not a poem.
However much it may be
that words may witness,
this is not a poem.

Witness lives lost, wasted,
ground to dust, witness with words,
but that will not make
this poem.

Voices may cry out,
as poems sometimes do,
for justice, for approximations
of mercy, but this is not a cry.

This is merely the soft sound
a mind may make
when it has gotten used
to the converging unquiet.

This is the moment
when you cannot hear me
and the moment
when I cannot hear me.

It is the moment
before the cry,
before the words,
before the poem.

This is the moment
when the pencil
makes the sound
of stitching wounds.

This is the moment
before healing begins,
the moment
that healing begins.

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