Violence is real. It is undulating near in search of love. It plans on stealing affection away, from child and mother, from father and brother. It hasn’t words to use or smiles to forge upon dull mugs, but wrinkles and rage to christen upon the veins of darkness; quick and painless, a rush of fists, a murder of rapid-fire crow cawing within. Fingers know not what to say, mouths point back at wings and something stirs, rises and falls; cancer or perished love. It's made its way here, twisting laughter and breathing inside the down-turned mouths, hurried to save itself- easy target, just waiting to fall. And all of a sudden the truth's unfastened like a cloud letting go its tether. Hearts beating like hope, fluttering stars, gloom pierced, loved with charity, grass and blooms, the buried dark, the whole. Drink to the hue of truth, stumble down the burgeon of love, affection, longing, the vision in sight of the finish, wheeling stars, hearts free in the storm. © 201
(The Weaver's Song)