All is Well in the End

You left me stranded on the edge of the world

And all I could do was jump

Landing head first on an earth

That was much more cushioned than I had expected

And suddenly everything was alright

 

 

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Withered, Battered, and Abandoned

Withered men used to dig the trenches,

their tired hands rough and worn down from labour’s past,

the soot under their fingernails forming something called modern art,

their faces besmirched with dirt leftover from the mines.

 

Battered women reached out in vain,

calling out for their loved ones to cease the hurt,

the destruction,

the pain,

mending their broken fingers

and patching up their wounds

as they licked themselves clean,

washing away the blood with their own salty tears.

 

Infants used to be born to absent mothers,

their hearts and minds unavailable,

their bodies farther gone,

hidden in cheap hotel rooms and dusty, studio apartments

dressed up in old furniture taken from the curb,

their edges cracking and splitting.

 

Time used to age gracefully,

but finesse has since become foreign territory,

its traces forever erased now that the clocks have stopped,

their hands ticking no more.

Solace can no longer be found.