amidst a thousand crying souls
am I lost in loud confusion
am I tossed among cadavers
am I left to pick the bones,
grey and huddled close
like the bed of river stones.

struggling for air
to surface worms’ domain
I am buried by the masses
clawing overhead and limb
I try to calm the horror
but no one joins my hymn

with history filled with scholars
of every ‘ploy and field
it’s hard to find a place
where people listen
lips are sealed

the heart of every writer,
poet, and artist’s voice
is to etch their final piece
in the heavens which we spy
but doubtless cannot reach

to mark a brittle thing
and hope that it may last
only one among tombstone forests
bound to petty hopes
and treading broken glass

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