Shelter


Rip apart a shelter, of any kind.
Trip over its young, its old, they don’t mind.
Kick and mend, beat and bend and
tend to those who there lie and
die and shrivel, cry and quake in your wake,
they won’t care.
You’re a bear in bards clothing,
who smiles with care and still, quietly loathing.
Each tear another prayer worth ignoring.
Here we see his hands, our hands, smothered in fear,
bred and mothered with merely a whisper of grace.
Servants, are we, who ignore the cry but
cry longer,
plead louder,
laugh oftener,
so to sip a poison which smells of lilac,
tastes of violet,
and appears in violent bursts of brilliance.
The loud will be silenced.
The crowd, like life’s lovelife, silenced.
The fears, tears, bruises, scabs still browned and broken,
bloodied and torn open,
silenced.
That jealous laughter, silenced.
All is silenced.
All is still.
All is right…
Then from a place unseen, untouched, unheard of
comes the soft, still quite silent,
quiet and vibrant,
a single sound,
a simple syllable,
like a bullet rips through you,
but doctored it heals you,
and most miraculous of all it, it hears you.

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