weakness

All these philosophies

would not hold you in the hours of need,

would not warm you in the sour moments

of your age,

would be too late,

the flowers have wilted, their stems brown and twisted, their wrinkled petals strewn about the floor when he

tiptoes out the door. Count the horrors

of your grief: he flees, he flees.

He leaves only a warm ghost

melting into dawn as it slides up your knees and tears up your guts

with glee. The night is over. The end is near. Can you hear the cry? Can you hear the cry?

Break it. Break it. Tear down this wall

of your grief: he flees, he flees.

He leaves only a wound

for light to enter.

Rise. The end is over.

Khôi