Bits and Pieces

Smoke

Scaling walls

of never-ending towers,

looming piles of community ideas.

They reach the foot-holds,

strain their muscles,

until they fall.

But no one sees,

no one watches,

they must keep moving,

laugh at the terror-stricken

faces

that fall to the ground,

because scaling a wall is hard.

Can they wait for others to catch up?
Heck, no.

Gone are the days when they

could dance in grocery stores

and laugh without fear,

smile without self-consciousness

and weave wreaths adorned

with droplets of happiness.

Replaced are the moments

of utter embarrassment,

societal norms and picking-and-choosing,

moments of anxiety,

fear

that infests the mind

and eats at the conscience.

But what about the sideliners,

those who battle off the zombies

day after day,

earning nothing but insults,

stares of piercing knives,

silent judgements because of their

dissimilarities?

They raise their voices in silent

protest

to ward off the army,

one mind in itself,

with a wooden shield,

a mere guard against a battalion.

A sea of bullets rain down,

and some get scratched,

some fall and don't rise again,

but it is the constant fight

that kicks dust into the air

and sends spears driven into spirits alight.

A burning fire resonates inside

the pan of ashes left in their souls

to abide the cold fingers

that pluck the harp into the night,

humming softly a tune,

broken notes strung together.

A whispering melody floats

from divided sides,

both not entirely sure where to

thrive,

what land will suffice for the footprints

of individuality or conformity.

It is the constant war inside

that tears each apart

until only questions remain.

"Why?"

"So what?"

These float up like smoke,

waiting for answers,

but they have to keep

moving

till tomorrow when

the fight starts

again.