These are not my words.

This is not my life.

No.

These are all of our words.

This is all of our lives.

And there is no looking back

All we can do is move on.

No

We can’t move.

Whether sheltering in privilege or living in hell,

The greatest tragedy

Is that we are more afraid-

Of door knobs & each other’s hands,

Than a suffering born from only staring at ourselves.

They say water,

Left to its own devices, will always run down hill, that every stream seeks the ocean. 

They also say:

If you put your ear to the glass in glass in New York City,

Any given night at seven,

You can hear cheering.

It’s an undercurrent.

A wave.

A whisper

Humanity calling back to itself

That same ocean.

They say if you put your ear to the ground on the forest floor,

You can hear the earth crack open.

A garden.

A grave.

The lush blackness of night.

As the earth shakes like seeds we scatter, 

Down.

Surrender, buried in darknesses 

A denial that will no longer bring forth blossom.

Shrouded in acceptance : a place past fear and uncertainty. 

We lie like sprouts planted at the threshold of God-

The possibility of a universe breaking through the surface,

As flowers, almost ready to listen.