A Whisper Unheard
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Even my wounds have been cut,
in the brown and the blood --
stabbed, shot, and kicked,
but where is death? Where
are the angels, the ladies
and their singsong voices
to carry me along?
All I see is men upon men
damning the earth, treading
atop six inches of water --
(what water is this?) red
and red and red and cold;
cold, red, dark, swallowing
the souls of those falling.
His blue sleeves, cuffed
in gold, strangling my life;
if only I could reach
that cutlass on his hip --
hands reaching all about me,
now forever reaching --
I am a whisper unheard.
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