Captured by a Graphic T-Shirt

4th row, dead center.

Hush, hush, hush - he's coming.

The silence erupts.

Not-quite-a-man folds the shattered pieces in his hand,

In a way I suspect he could catch nothing else,

And then he opens his mouth.

 

There is no sound but for his voice,

The blood of my peers has ceased flowing,

The very air is undisturbed by our breath.

I am a moved stone.

Though once I ran directionless

I am now captured by a graphic t-shirt and wrinkled khakis.

 

He has grasped me in pen-softened hands.

Hands that only know lovers, and loving, and lovliness.

And my fingers suddenly feel their calluses

So long in pain that they forgot to tell me.

We together resolve to allay them.

To be fingers that know only of lovers, and loving, and lovliness.

 

My hands pull ink from hidden depths,

And they write about regret and sorrow and lonliness.

They write about death and brokenness and exhaustion.

And lost dreams and blackened hopes and despair.

And, more and more, lovers, and loving, and lovliness.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
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