This Is What We Do

this is what we do: we stand fast.

leave the us of today clad in yesterday’s regret,

a blanket woven with the threads of sorrow, anger, apprehension, hope,

draped over our shoulders like the weight of the world.

looking straight up, it encompasses our vision – a sea of twinkling stars.

falteringly, we take one step, then two. squint, one eye shut,

can we still see the stars?


the voices don’t stop, echoing, reverberating

in an eerie harmony, a shot in the hopelessly bleak void

stepping stones, just a little bit more, they say, and

we cover our ears, squeeze our eyes shut

Because this isn’t right.


carefully, cautiously, we peek, seeing

her hair, once the color of deep, rich mahogany,

now punctuated with apathetic streaks of gray

she sighs, then lapses into silence and

his pursed lips, once a valley, now a plateau

awoken from its slumber, it rears its head:



so this is what we do: we close our eyes.

perhaps, we suppose, it will be better in the comforting embrace of darkness.

that way, we can’t see anything, no, not anything,

not even what we are becoming.

the stars exist only in our distant memories now.

one by one they wink out,

impervious to the futility of our plight.

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