I declare a prohibition, to
ban the way we contest change,
dry up currently whetted appetites
that hunger for war, conflicting,
pedestrian ideas and ideals
promoting each other’s assumed lesser.
Backlash burns silently
smoldering, tears blind those
already living without sight, mixing
tears mix with the heat of untouched friction of words
rubbing-together, concocting a chemical cleanse
aggravating all the senses.
If I was cut from a different cloth
a silk that could bend but not break,
finely woven with hand-me-down threads
actively aging, blended colors and adorned
by frayed ends breathing off small strands
of personality distinguishing my
quilted spirits from one another,
perhaps cloth covers would be
a relief before a means to disappear
unevenly, from the world.
Gracefully falling towards Earth
having long since passed but still
exhuming only beauty in its descent
on a breeze to spin
providing aesthetic meter to
the obligatory monotonous sound of all
Oak leaves as they crunch quietly,
finally touching the ground.