And they are nothing to our plight, they are only a nuisance wound around our shattered bravery, pounding low our gnarled nerves. Whatever keeps them from splintering open like the spiraling tin teeth twisting over and over, again and again, exposing an empty can, an unfilled wish or unanswered prayer is beyond our grasp. Their skin, more ashen than a dying ghost, most ready to fall away into the milieu; we keep forgetting that each barren appetite soaks up our dispirited objection, stores it for our own wail, our own unfilled craving. And this suffering shall be like vagueness, as alien to us as our first howls of silence. (Artwork by Marcin Bondarowicz ) © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman Read all the September Songs Help support Feeding America's Hunger Action Month
(The Weaver's Song)