Alison weeps at the fake Senior Prom.
Alison creeps out onto the lawn.
Alison’s skin turns to purple from pink.
Alison’s flesh beginning to stink.
A stench too great to look away.
Poking at the children who’ve come to play.
Poking at Alison with a big long stick.
Flies alight with each small kick.
Alison floats above the field.
Amongst the birds and clouds to shield
her from the view of those below
who move through life ignoring the glow
of a vacuum in midst of spring air.
Gliding and growing beginning to tear
through the surface tension of a calm morn.
Swirling the tempest, igniting a storm.
Driving rain drops pelt the surface
of grass and concrete and metal, with purpose.
Cleansing the stains of stigma and pain.
The dirt drains away. Crispness remains.
Who will remember poor Alison?
When time has passed and we’ve moved along.
Who will remember the lessons she taught?
Lessons engraved, but I guess you forgot.