this life has sharpened me like
a fine blade from afar to quell disaster
with precision, can only now we saturate ourselves
in candlelight vigils. as they must rise, rise in states of anger
rise not for the petty things, rise in the heat for defusing pleasure.
halt the expense of their graves they multiply without our voices
the innocent seated erect, bodies seated
now rowed in narrow graves, rowed underground, above ground
they are marked as a consequence of our failure.
why as we are absent and spaced from the heavy pockets of the devils
we are ever so present as they tell stories with no names
smooth the resolve of sharpened blades. we join
to serrate the valleys with our hands.
we take our children back, seat them erect in the rows
of their classrooms, in the narrow hope of their futures.