We sit in silence.
The shuffle of books tearing at my ears,
Pages ripping, then fading into a miscalculated toss.
Creaking door hinged open,
An invitation into our minds.
Plastic wrap disguised as glass windows.
We are numb.
We wait for your ode.
Oh, shadow, how you sit behind your children —
A passenger in your own car.
Foot on the gas,
Staring through the glossy screen.
Hair cascading over your eyes.
Where will you be when the clock stops ticking,
And my hands start shaking?
We are afraid.
We are newborns, crying for our mothers left in a room of incessant screams.
The unfulfilled destiny of an empty chair.
Lead snapping into pieces.
We stand, then cower.
Oh, look at his mouth. It is fixed.
You are still.
We are dying.