Unspoken, unidentified tragedies ...
I wonder if bad news and devastation are better delivered
With the merciless blow, like finding out you'll die just before Christmas
Or rather should they creep into your room in the primal, every-man-for-himself cloak of night
And begin discretely, strategically feasting on your sanity
I say its better to have it all at once
Then you can at least identify the time and nature of the tragedy in its entirety

But when it creeps and manifests itself
In pieces over time you find yourself unprepared and dismayed
You have contempt for its mocking namelessness
You try to complete a puzzle of organic, silent pieces
You sit at the table clutching a warm cup of coffee
Hoping its sweet warmth might offer your heart relief
And your bed has been made for a year

A year of squatting on stale carpet
Urgently organizing the collections of letters you'll never send
A year of leaning over a kitchen counter
Breaking your ribs in the name of some blues song you resonate with
A year of rest neither for your heart nor your bones
Why sleep if you must sleep alone?
Why sleep with someone besides your love?

Why sleep when you know you'll wake empty and sober with a dream of the past lingering?
Why allow your brain the opportunity to let you live out those wonderful memories you've been clutching
Like a ten ton razor-stemmed rose wet with rubbing alcohol
It burns, it stings
Why go as far as to allow dreams of love?
The rose's weight would then increase

Rose's are morbid and veangeful and harsh
I want to hold soft sunflowers and never sleep again
Hallucinate a happy world, hysterical insomnia
For that way of salvation I need speed
To soften all the petals my palms seek
No more rose burns for my tender-fleshed heart.

This poem is about: 
Our world



I love you

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