I can not forget cries of innocence
as you carried me
to the edge of the moon,
the way I closed my fists
as tears met with soft susurration
of leaves in summer.
There are centuries that are lonely
where you inscribed pain
upon delicate skin.
Can you hear the rush of blood
as roses turn away
when you deeper plunge
soul into darkness, where even
the dead don’t make a sound.
Conscience it seems is a contract
between the flesh and mind,
perhaps if I whisper your name
it will haunt and chastise.
And I shall return to days unsullied
mourn with the gentle
shower of rain.
If only I could scatter my soul
upon grasslands of listening earth
whisper prayers to utopian sun,
until I forget the cries of innocence
that question me afar
from the lies you have built.
Photo credits: Henry Asencio, 1972
Posted for Kerry’s Challenge @ Real Toads
& Posted on Poetry Pantry @ Poets United