Poetry

I have forgotten
where I was,
when they came for me.
I remember a beach
and an ugly sunset
over a lifeless sea.
I remember the children
smiling, and running up
but never into that sea.
I remember wishing
they could.

That was my crime,
that foolish wish.
And then they took me,
to the edge
where the ocean
comes to surrender.
Where all the violence
trapped in every wave,
powerful enough
to defy the Sun,
and shatter the Moon,
sputters and gasps
and crawls cowardly
up the shore,
and licks our feet.

This is where I am to be.
At the edge of things,
looking sideways.
A broken harp
in unfamiliar hands.
An empty cup
waiting for an
endless sea.
They struck me
with hammers
and left me
cracked enough
to let the Light
within.

They made me burn
down everything I was.
Until all that remained
was the hollow sound
at the heart of every scream.
They broke my throat
and poured in the fire.
And told me the truth.
The words will always come
but never to the strong.
Poets must learn to fly
with broken wings.

I wept for joy
at all the pain,
that I turned into
mobiles of words.
I stood frozen,
upon that shore.
I spoke with the
water at my feet.
And it smiled at me
and gathered itself
and rushed back
into the sea.

My heart broke open
and out galloped
all the horses.
Never to return.