a drabble of la madrugada
Posted April 4th, 2020 by Gracithe1andonly
in wardly searching
April 4th, 2020
if i get out of this alive, i know i'll be a saint
because the lies and truth look so alike i'm getting faint.
if i can see through swimming tears what people really are,
i'll be assumed into the heavens and become a star.
'cause perfect's either realer than us all or nonexistent.
either i've been lied to or my friends are inconsistent.
is there hope for who we are? we'll pull ourselves apart,
the core division in the West is shattering my heart.
for this i know: both can't be right.
perhaps we both are wrong.
i know that one side, with its might
is taking up a song,
a siren's song and singing its own self into damnation.
why can't i stop my overactive, bad imagination?
for it could be--oh horror, it could be my own foul heart
taking its great tools and turning evil to an art,
pretending all the time to be so golden, be so graced,
while (hypocrite!) still running from what i have never faced.
it could be the ones i trust and love. they'd never mean to,
but we could all be duped and it could never have been seen to.
i've seen enough! i've seen a household die and fire fall.
but pain means nothing if i don't arise to take the call.
the call. the pain. they fuse to one. the truth is there. i'll find it.
i'll listen to your reasons and i'll always be reminded
that 'perfect' isn't here with us but that we may still reach it.
'timshel!' said steinbeck. too bad my small voice is here to preach it.
my voice is small! so i create more voices in a chorus.
i give them names and faces, but if they exist, it's for us.
the children of a mind and soul so young and ignorant--
they cry 'timshel' within me! and i hoped they ever would.
See more stories by Tía Snow