Too late to paint the shades of darkness;
it’s after midnight, don’t you know?
So many wounds, and so much harshness,
of deaths outrunning lives too slow…
Do we remember our own image mirrored,
the smell of revenge on edges of time,
of tenderness scarred and hopes littered,
of poems unworthy of paper and rhyme?
Is this the end of all our beginnings?
Impossible lyrics to unwritten songs;
factual statements for obvious meanings,
no rights in the graveyards of all our wrongs…