Burnt Beauty | and other poems

a visit

he stands over my shoulder,

just out of my reach.

one day he'll come,

tip his hat and refuse to leave.

i exchange my truth for his;

he tells me of the sounds he hears.

collective gasps, whimpers.

calls for mothers that will never be returned.

silence;

i've never heard it be described.

sends chills down the bones of those dead,

those waiting out time.

l

ong hard days, he says,

he wishes he could collect.

tiny breaths stored in his pocket,

filed by his own hand.

he doesn't give me a name

only bows his head in the light.

drags me away, mumbles:

"why do i win all my fights?"