Counting Ripples

Sadness weeps not for itself rather from broken windows of a child where each piece lay by the tracks of despair where unshaven shadowed men slept in bushes...waiting to board tomorrow in their continuous circle of failure it is the broken sidewalk felt by little feet, through the holes of shoes one step at a time the water fountain of white's only that dripped constantly with hate the scorched eyes that pierced cotton armor sewed by a Mother's hand worn on the body of the bowed head of embarrassment that walked by pointed fingers of laughter never accepted, never welcomed it is the tears that make night longer the rush of blood following a wounded trail it is the soldier that fought a hundred fights of respect and the pounding fist breaking walls the lonely cry of empty nights on narrow bridges with a sad moon counting ripples lapping stones on the banks of tomorrow wondering about fate...listening to crows as they call out the name of darkness wanting death to appear, without regret to find a planted stone in an empty field without footprints...where grass grew to cover any reason that someone lived 2/12/18