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
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