We burrow into horror, digging
for some hollow hope
beneath certain absurdity
of open-ended scope.
Words like dirt fall empty,
sounding fear of what will be:
“It wasn’t what I wanted
but it wasn’t up to me.”
– Rising voices weighted down
by sudden self-awareness
(Somewhere, someone whispers
some sacred oath of fairness.)
After soil turns to ashes
where nothing bright can live,
Will historians remember how we tried?
Will they forgive?
POETRY FESTIVAL. Submit to site for FREE. Submit for actor performance. Submit poem to be made into film. 