we fear desire;
uncertain voices whisper,
and the manacled poet no more speaks soul’s truth.
We manipulate a cold beauty;
not of our world.
Love is a dream,
after which only nightmares live.
We see them drowning
Grace, apparently finite,
not enough for deliverance.
The translucent dead speak their sorrow.
a haunting memory to invoke heart’s passion;
a vision of denying the last breath.
Those left to know
Were left to speak
A spark of thought… of action,
Where none has been.
Shall the ghosts of judgment foresee the coup?
Or will those who remain revive true beauty?
Which blind and seeing eyes alike recognize.
The vision is clear
A task has been set
A call to action from those silenced by fear
The price we pay for prevailing justice
Can never exceed
The price already paid.