Rose
There is a burden, blessing, and responsibility that comes with acknowledging the sadness that surrounds you, the blessing only ignited when united to console their tormenting ache. Being hypersensitive to expressions, reflections, and memories painted on communal faces, sometimes leaves this uneasiness in my stomach, defenseless I feel, yet somehow their moments of catapulting distant, intangible messages become strangely touching and real, but alludes to great difficulties interacting back. Why is this little girl’s mouth drooped astray, or why one man stared blankly with hypnotic sway, and that kid cornered roughly, whimpering away? What do their auras secretly say, and how was I oblivious yesterday? It’s like that tattered woman they told me existed running frantic on concrete floor in battered sandals, eyes forlorn. She stands at the corner, sore, waiting for someone she lost, perhaps longing for one who would never return. Why do I see her now, when I did not before, in her despair, pacing until she goes back home, returning to ritualistically complacent breakdowns? And what about those who share common love, wandering aimlessly within their hearts for a possibility to divulge passion’s word, but unknowingly murdering the one they fought to repair? Half orphaned, they stood themselves bearing their wounds that required more healing than I do. And what about this wall, that slowly becomes vulnerable, as their emotions push through like the tribes of Gog and Magog? They were helpless, but their sensibilities brutal on my outer shell, now steadily cracking, from wear and tear. And where there was light across the neural hemisphere, is intuitive gray matter and one shot of brilliance moving upwards to air. And then, there are the people who were collapsed at the names on black stone, falling north and south. Do you know you make me weep and tender inside? As tiny white ribbons swayed against blue sky, no one would share the truth with you, one more shocking than what you could conceive, turning you a believer through subconscious whims indeed. Still, from now until then, I shall cradle remains with you, against pavement shivering, because I knew your sorrow was true. Then sometimes, we find ourselves resurrected by powers of faith, and even through small things of great mercy, like the pitter patter of raindrops against my skin, that camouflages beautifully the well within. But if tears do continue to profusely accrue, will I drown when obliviously infusing myself with melancholy from each of you-- the woman who paces, that broken girl on the train, the man who sways, the boy bullied on his way, and those who yearn love, breaking her in two? And so, please know--- I scale back again, further, running in the other direction, just for a minute if I can, to shelter from dark shadow’s coax, and believing that good erases sin. Still—I promise, I promise, after sixty seconds the most, I will compose, and post restoration will wear you close—as each of you is a rarest desert rose. For whether withered, or perfuming my soul, your thorns summon blood to flow-- and in my heart's garden you shall always grow...
<< Home