An Ode

This is an ode to a broken window

who receives rain’s bosom.

This is the time for redemption

as vines creep toward

our open arms,

as we sing the song

of daybreak dulled.

Let your sky destroy

the nothing that throttles

our minds.

They, Who

They invented ghosts

to cover salted earth.

They taught children

formalities to soften

dispositions, to sell

hands and arms as maps

gesturing into the unknown,

directing willed doom.

They coordinated feigned

knowledge to digest untruth

and reteach us until soil saturates

until air solidifies

until water congeals.

They were the subjects

who were never subjected

to the uncontrolled.

They were never subjugated

rather insulated until history

finally broke its own mold.

They, who created the cycle

yet never conquered love.