all that we have left,
rigid motions set in action by
a reality no one could avoid.
time ticking away as we speak,
with our words befuddled by every
the contours of our opinions,
shaped and stretched by little
pinches of hope, and loss, and...spite...
launching every plan, or every future,
except the one we know is best
for destroying all our anxious subtleties,
of how nothing leads to something so
profound, so worrisome,
that everyone has been given a chance to speak
for any idea they might have concocted.
whether you listen, though they still carry on,
we know what's sailing over our heads:
the very basis of EVERY conversation,
clouding up our mundane...heroic...lives.
could it be that this is what's been
mistaken for a livelier cost of courage,
or even an outspoken misunderstanding,
that they lived with anyway?
crushing the possibility
for better care, for conscious efforts,
a further isolation lesson,
carrying with it useless motives...