Madmen

The world is inherently ugly,

Dull as the thud of death

Muddled in everyday indifference –

 

The very reason poets

Look to the sky,

And madmen (like I)

 

Cannot stop

Scratching the surface,

Scarring parchment skin,

 

In hope of striking scarlet gold,

Buried away by leprechauns

With sorrows old.

 

Bleed.

Bleed now,

My dearest.

 

For the world depends

On the declotting

Of this sentiment.

 

The Squab

flower-death

Darkness descends
Eventually. Inevitably.
The empty day is swallowed whole
By dusk, emptier still.

What do you call a baby pigeon?
(The cavalier question floats into the night)
A diminutive feathered corpse lies motionless
Peaceful in this last light,
Eyes never opened- not once.
Not even to witness the end.

Death arrives in the most precise
Moment.
Not a second early, not one too late.

But what of those that never
Get to live, to age, to wait.

10-year-old Giulia in Italy,
Buried alive by a quake;

Omran, 5, of Aleppo
Covered in the grime of war and prime-time fame,
13 other kids bombed
In the country with no names;

A little girl blown to pieces
In Afghanistan fields-
Landmines don’t get along with soccer;

Hundreds of migrant childhoods
Washed ashore- lungs filled with the ocean,
The only kingdom with shelter to offer.

Death arrives in the most precise moment.
Not a second early, not one too late.
But what of those
Left behind to ache?