Bereft of words,
Save for this small exhortation I found
Lying in the middle of the street.
It wanted desperately for me to help him
Find his face, or something fairly close to it,
So that he could finally be seen again,
And perhaps even interacted with;
As x approaches the (a) limit of civility.
Afterwards we would locate his jar of coagulated thoughts
And loosen them with his mother’s tears,
The vagrant shadows of possibilities
Forever unrealized lurking restlessly
Within the hollowed-out space of each anguished drop.
Never mind the blood that cascades from his chest;
Its song will end soon enough,
And you will be forced to interpolate its lyrics
Between each panged session, each rupture
Of salvation from clot after blessed clot.
Churning and churning,
A fire persists with
Each successive wave growing more robust than the last
In a furor of abandon withstood only by an escaping sun.
There is no life in this place,
Because he remained invisible
Up to the moment the eyes of the other
Encapsulated him whole
Before the first words could take form.
Solace the hearts as you may,
But you will not find him
In your good will.
Your fear is where they have made his home;
Where you defend against him, daily,
Pushing him into the throes of immobility
And de-personalization as you
Seek refuge from all that
Dare mention his name.
In the end, though,
He is but waiting to be born.
You will see him.
And he will know a pure sun.
Art: “Constellation: The Morning Star”