Why isn't the landscape more scarred after such terrible storms? Why aren’t all the lampposts cowered in gloom, all the windows without glass, bricks shattered, when violent winds toss their worship like bombs on the moon? These questions haven’t motive, they’re human. Bloody human, gripping at life boats. I’m curious, curious as to why we’re floating so close, side by side, but this, our proximity, doesn't reach or teach, it has yet to sketch grace upon our ragged canvas. On the final minute of our final day we’ll blanch at reflections of ourselves, ghosts, save for the wide open wound of our somber account, our soiled adoration of battles and grief wiped clean for tomorrow, covered in the same, too sightless, too diverted, whatever we've done and will do, everything we've made of ourselves, of others, the moon, we’ll not risk taking off our masks…or learning. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman
(The Weaver's Song)