PoetryRecoveryIt is that time of night for house fires;
I see where the sirens go.
The insominac haze of too much on my mind -
passes me through the intersection.
As the red fades out, I go-
crossing over the twisted ruins of a prosperous once-was;
smoky charcoal dark below me
fraying damaged landscape -
in this city that sits so close to death;
I find peace in the cradle of my grief.
Her face is past sorrow, numb and dirty;
everyday, she asks me for change -
I can't give her that.
Everyday, the same request without a recognition of my face;
the same hope dashed into her amnesia.
To forget is so simple,
such an easy distance from pain.
I will always be grieving -
I will always be in pain;
I will sit and bear witness
in the dark hours of night -
to protect the child
as she sleeps.
When she wakes we'll cry together,
loud wet sobs;
from the joy and sorrow
of needing reunion;
held tight in my arms.
I see where the sirens go;
into the dim sickly yellow patched pavement,
pathways of the city;
twisted and in shadow
I sit and bear witness;
to that fire burning in so much dark -
to the scream of grief;
rising up with the smoke and cinders.
In this city that sits so close to death;
I find comfort in the cradle of my grief.
We cry together as we cry alone;
I hear them all through the walls,
see the bent backs and wet of tears;
across the thin street through the window;
we cry together as we cry alone.
In mourning we will pass each other
in the dirty knarled streets;
I see the dust on her forehead,
the dirt under her nails
and in her eyes as they laugh loud -
there is sorrow;
always she is grieving with the joy
in the two small tears,
that she wipes from the corners
of her eyes.
It is that time of night for house fires.
I see where the sirens go
in this city that sits so close to death
I find comfort in the cradle of my grief;
we cry together as we cry alone -
always in pain,
together we recover, though we do it alone.
I will sit and bear witness,
passing the sorrow as she wakes.