She Cannot Watch

 

She cannot watch this world with it’s lack of concern. She cannot watch humans share stories of horror before they click the channel to another station. Satiation. Satiation. Bring the brain to another dimension. Escape the images. Babies dying. Children crying. Mother’s weeping. Father’s gone flat. This is the aftermath of a planet turned cold.

This is real chemical warfare, when the DNA sitting inside of the body no longer has a voice; when it has become robotic, static and unconcerned with the burdens carried by the most innocent of her species, the children. This earth is seeping and shaking in flight, preparing to sling forward, and so she draws her sword. She straps on metal boots to stay rooted in place. She slices through aggravation and loss. She beheads egotistical diatribe and places aside ignorance with intellectual rhymes.

Everything they hear goes in one echoed ear and through the rear of the skull where everything’s gone numb; where smart has become the new dumb, because the last book read was forced in high school and current events are spread from digital non-evidence.

Opinions carry more weight these days than facts. Belief has become an actual thing as if it is valid so the cabals tally up tithes to set aside for parties with children whose eyes have gone hopeless with the knowing that nobody’s listening to their silence scream. There is hope left still inside of her; that in the depths of the crying, they will know help is coming.

No one hears them because the masses are adhered to the harmonic tone of their own voices, bounced back onto them from their blinders, and they become so tightly bound inside of their illusions that their sensibilities drown.

She will ride high on invisible steeds with chariots of good deeds, boundary lines clearly defined and fight stalwart battles, until generations of trauma have been healed. One life at a time. No child left behind. One step. One wound bandaged,  then a chance to become accustomed to the scars left from being ravaged.

You sleepers and your habits have left the vulnerable tattered. So, she waits. She watches. She listens to the clock’s tick tock as time comes in waves. There’s a storm rising. Can you hear the quiet? When it explodes, everything you know will change, and you will never again be the same.

M7

Questionable Answers

(written by M7 on March 16, 2007)

Sometimes, I crave intimacy so badly, that I cry myself to sleep hugging my pillow.” She says, her face sad as she looks inside his liquid eyes wanting to touch him, but unable to reach her hand forward.

Every night I sleep next to a person who is a thousand miles away, and I don’t even care.” He replies, his eyes cast down, accepting his existence, his purpose, unchained longing clinging to his lashes.

Tell me.” She whispers urgently. “Which is worse? Those who are lonely yet have someone to sleep beside them, abhorring their breathing? Or the one who sleeps alone and makes love only in their dreams?”

He reaches his hand forward to sweep her hair from over her eyes, and she breathes heavily into his touch, her lids half closed. This is forbidden, isn’t it; to covet such as this, another’s vow, a child’s father, to crave morsels that turn into cravings, making her want to claw at her throat from the absence.

The sting of solitude cuts deeper where there is no light, no hope, only the sound of life crumbling around you. See, there is hope for you. You are lovely and filled with colorful angst shooting from your pupils. My tunnel? It shows me darkness. It is an emotional abyss.”

His voice seeps with desperation as he twirls his thumbs around each other slowly. She watches the smoothness of his skin as it caresses each line used to provide human identity.

“Imagine my dismay as I wander,” She contemplates, “connecting with few, finding simplicity, boredom, lack of stimulation, but I must admit that being one alone is far more comfortable than being two in chosen separation.”

She cannot deny him the ownership, the validation of his own agony. Everything in her wants to pull his head to her chest so he can weep. Yet, they sit in silence, contemplating voids unanswered, accepting their own purpose in this fading connection that had been magnetic so long ago.

Sagan.” He says quietly, looking off into the distance, a half smile on his lips.

What?” She asks.

He takes her face into his hands. His eyes have passed her corneas and traveled into the center of her, sinking his words inside her earth; words that would grow fields of tall grass and wildflowers.

Sagan said ‘I have loved to the point of madness; that which is called madness, that which to me, is the only sensible way to love.’ This is the only way I know how to love.”

So they love the only way they know how.