calling on that ebbs and flows
underneath the surfaces of our feet
the raw certainty of being and simple tastes of gratitude for a moment or a memory
how has a house so callouse built itself above
to never produce anything of its own kind?
Monuments are gravestones.
Do not let us die this way,
placidly suffocating the breath of life in the diaries of our minds.
Docile Birds with clipped wings.
Well we all have suffered and have suffered suffering enough,
I call upon compassion
for the generations that follow
for your own child at heart
for the time that is being wasted as we march like soldiers into our enemy
as we brake mirrors of empty faces over our own heads
Will we answer one another?