At 5:42 pm, through the grit of forgiving the week, the radio blares on my behalf. Strength is not a commodity these days – save what you have. Just because you are louder, does not mean you will be hurt less.
At 6:25 pm, in the smog of an angry city, the sun bleeds a colour I cannot. On a mountaintop we bargain – a trading of expression and only one of us will leave unburdened. It’s not the same. Even the view has changed.
At 6:58 pm, as monstrous night begins to wake, the sky threatens a darkness I already know. You cannot scare someone with something that is already a part of them. The stars are brave in the black. I am too.
At 8:37 pm, in the cold of thought, the silence holds all the secrets I need to hear. If I talk, they are gone – questions bind my lips shut in case the quiet speaks. You can never know the weight of words until they are said.
At 9:00 pm, flooded with sedative moonlight, the pull of home ebbs and flows. It is not a place to go, it has come to mean much more than that. The ground beckons to begin rebuilding. I ask, what must be done with all the rubble?