Friday, November 6, 2009

Gray Skies Forever and Screens of White; Ballads of Nothing in Particular

"Months and months have passed," says the stoic doctor
In bleached-white coat, with sterile mask.

"Months and months have passed," says the teacher
Noticing her as she rises
To wander the halls,
Going to her next class, to her next class, to her next class;
Day after day, after day, after day.

"Um, feel better," says the distracted friend,
Gone faraway, and apparently daydreaming;

"Well, feel better," says the folded-hand counselor,
As if there is some delusion of hope;

"You will feel better," says the dandelion
In almost-winter fall;

"Feel better,"
Says the white screen
As I type this poem,
Resurrected by an old tune I heard.

"Are you okay?"
Says the brother,
Sincere above all;
"Are you okay?"
Says the dog,

In her silent dog-speak;
Grunts and whimpers, barks, the like:
The point is, I know she knows
If I am okay.

I want someone
To tell me it is okay
To not be okay,
To take me in this darkness,
And bring, if only
A speck, of light
To these walls,
Even though I am dead.

I want someone to stitch
My frail limbs back together
To re-arrange my voice-box
And upright this broken doll,

Knocked over by drunken winds of fate,
Obviously being cruel at the time.

I want

To see someone's, anyone's, face
When I go to sleep at night.

I want

To see the Sun,
Because as my brother says,
"The Sun is life; without it we would die,"
He is indeed a science-y man.

"What's wrong?" says the mother, though it be standard procedure,

"...What's wrong?" says the father, far too preoccupied
To really notice at all;

"Come back," says a silent urge, the Dread waiting still
To devour her as
She sleeps in her bed.

"Come back,"
Says the unfinished
Book I was writing
In a document I have locked.

"Come back,"
Says the sin and the pain and irrationalities;

"Come back,"
Says the lonely child I had befriended.

I say "her," and not "I,"
I use second person, not first,
Because this girl is not I any longer.

I died long ago
And I cannot help it;

Because no matter what feigned,
Sugar-coated words
Are said,
It will never be okay.

I will live in this lull
Till the day that I die:
Gray skies Forever,
Screens of White,
And Ballads of Nothing in Particular.

"... She leaves her poetry to no one in particular,"
Says the lawyer at the girl's funeral.

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