The imagery’s grown so stark the tempo its fury, violence, its stroke, all quickened, loud. We’ve left the injured bound and buried, where screams pierce like whispers. Gone is our awareness, emptied like God in our prayers. Our courage to defeat it hangs in the air like a paper kite set aloft as if to stay; sandcastles and daydreams have more sky than our spirit. We’ve built worlds in our thoughts only to destroy forests and oceans filled with our uncertain faces. All the while our fists have been busy finding flesh to unwrap. O! These images weep! What noises are we painting that haven’t already failed to pierce heaven? © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman
(The Weaver's Song)