The Divide

A line does exist,

but not carved in sand:

deep within the soul lies an eerie crack,

mimicking the inhale of life,

yet never fully returning.

It is a phenomenon of neither prayer

nor empire,

and is void of tribe or dialect.

Lo, this fracture belongs to those spectators

that witness existence snuff out far too early,

as well as those who do not.

Booming clocks still tick for all,

but never in synchronicity.

Shadows creep

into the footfalls of some,

while laughter infuses the paths of others,

resonating across joyful chambers.

Cross the line,

and everything blurs,

faces devoid of warmth

soften their gaze,

stretching out gentle hellos

soaked in silence

that is simply too loud.

The child is delicately jostled into arms,

trembling in tender surrender,

yet must be held as if.

Lifeless pieces dissolve

into echoes of sound,

filling the voids of faith

while beliefs shatter

into blind faith.

Attend to the extraordinary pain,

masked beneath the surface

and soaring so freely unaccompanied,

to ache so starkly,

devoid of being uttered.

And listen,

for sole uttering binds this tale together:

“Words.”

The Pen That Never Runs Dry

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