Shards of salty tears

belie the sound of whistled anger.

Movement of the natural in

lingering trees and broken stares.

Children are not.

We bask in unity of

tortured minds, rotting lungs.

Breathe forward,

an empty space

where hope once sucked

sweetness,

pillowed our sleep.

Are you here with me?

My forever narrative.

When did fingers appear stale,

smeared?

Eighteen days of hope,

and this.

What is a poem now?

Lonely words.

They can’t hear the cries.

They cry as we hear.

And, we bleed

truth.