Giving Up The Gun

So much,

Do we all speak in

Stricken silence.

Eyes downcast,

And fingers knotted.

Volumes filled

In inexcusable sighs.

Lips slightly parted for

The powerful exhale

Of guilt from our lips.

Oh, the human race

Is a funny thing.

And at the end of the day,

Do we matter?

No,

The trees that stand do not

Care that we breathe here,

And the snails by the swamps,

Do not take note of our words.

The birds fly on without

Looking back

At us.

No,

We are just little specks

Among other colored flecks,

On the swiftly rotating blue-green rock,

That may be our only home.

And the seas do not heed to

Our commands,

Only to those of the moon,

That fatal attraction,

That has left us alone.

Our own attractions,

To all the touch.

Break.

We are destroyers

Of what our eyes ravenously

Rake over.

With our breath of lies.

That is chilled

And manifests as puffs of grey air

In the cool mornings,

When dew freezes,

Scared stiff,

On the leaves.

We speak and trees shed their leaves,

And look dead and cold.

We speak,

And the other ones of us...

Oh, we all wither.

Something inside

The human

Breaks everyday.

As we break everything else.

And I cannot stand to say

Such things.

But it is such the truth.

Blindly we stumble about.

The world,

Our pinata.

To break open with sticks.

To devour whatever good was left.

An empty cardboard shell.

Only brightly colored

On the outside.

As life goes.

We are all bright on the exterior facades,

But dear, can we not see

That inside,

Sometimes our illumination goes out.

The lightbulb goes dim

And our souls grow cold,

And cobwebby.

Our fingers,

Brittle glass.

Worn away are we,

Like broken bottles in the sea.

Our edges, worn and softened

With the years.

Time is the only thing

We cannot break.

Even the stars,

Hanging so thinly by fishing line,

We can break.

As we catch them by night,

And grapple with the pointy edges

As we stuff them in our pockets.

Wipe the blood from our hands,

Where the wishes stabbed and punctured

Them.

And our bandaged hands

And hearts

And minds,

Can be fixed,

Healed slowly.

So we become

Connected

To other people,

To heal,

And become less destructive

With our sighs and words.

We clasp hands in desperation

To prevent ourselves from

Drowning in the sea,

When our ships fails us.

The sad human race

Holds on so tightly,

Closes our eyes so firmly,

So we cannot see what

All is wrong,

But can only feel the hands

Of who is right.

So we may build the new bridges,

And plant the trees,

And wave to the sea,

As she laps the shores.

In our blindness,

We may find peace.

In one another's hands,

We may find comfort.

So much so,

That these two things

Let us go on

Living.