We see them through our collective lens, behind the mirage of everlasting riches, on the frame of our simulated empathy, our shared eyeglass compressing the world. Their faces then made beautiful and satisfied when we look upon them with a vivid shame just away from the hushed cries, just beyond where the silent do their weeping. In this song, hope is gathering around to witness the pluck of death from the distended tummy. A song for the world, not just our eyeless span, for all of mankind, a song made from the meat of escape. I have heard many other songs in yesterday’s mist shatter truth down like bones upon the ground; a noiseless breaking, ears masked in private pain; our own howling, our own wish, our own rescue. Heed the song of absence within and without, elevate your joy to an infinite tallness, lift them beyond the tapering gaze, their bones lay gently down, near enough to cuddle them. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman
(The Weaver's Song)