Gray weather reports are out of man’s hand.
The winds shift at an unknown beck and call.
Terror may endeavor to swallow whole,
as too often are we found in the sorrow of others
and the fatigue of attrition wars.
Led by fable to believe one held the world,
one swung the strings,
one dictated the direction of things.
Led by history’s choreography in archaic tongues
to support a roof in flames with two wavering arms,
burns categorized as the earnings of perserverance.
The dust of ground teeth be saved in caskets,
tied up along the windowsill:
The ultimate finality of our diminishing sum.
Here then does the precipice loom between ascension’s descension,
claimed a fool’s selfish dagger misguided,
yet stood in opposition is the antidote to scorch marks;
allowing a roof to realize its cave-in scheme
and release from the burden of upholding the improbable.
In this are we untimely aligned in contemporary grief,
contemplating in consequence to the frailty of folding hearts,
unfulfilled by drained demand,
told to sit still in nervous episodes;
to shove limbs into pockets and contain a raging storm.
Shrouded in conventional mystery,
tiny teeth tombs total the toll of mutual ignorance
afforded to those without soot on their shoes,
clung to by those sitting still for fear of a push away.
The weight is feared,
so none dare to share anguish,
seeing necessity for comprehension as an unbalanced trade
where pain only transfers, merging into one.
The question is illusive,
so none dare attempt to offer an answer,
concealing instead in empty, smiling words and bootstraps.
In this are we secured unlovingly in contemporary grief,
taught to bear troubles in seclusion,
though unavoidably colliding headfirst with the reality of breakdown,
flailing in the changing seasons,
unexpectedly altered in the throes of modern life.
Alone as determined by circumstance,
the weather of the day is seen as a personal fault,
and it is carried alone,
out of sight,
until eroded in attrition wars,