Writing

no matter what we pray,

no matter what we cry,

no matter what the news anchors deadpan

away,

no matter what the truth is,

no matter the color of the sky,

no matter the eleven years i've waited

this is not a poem. 

this is not a song.

this is not metaphor, a sonnet, an ode, not a ballad, a rant, not even a dream–

this is a plea. 

I've had the same dream 
Again and again 
Night after night 
And I spend day after day 
Thinking about what it means 

I'm standing in front of that building 

Well yes, I am still young

You can call me a kid, but I will never again be

The toddler I was, smiling at joyous things

That I no longer enjoy now that I'm older,

And I like older kid things.

Nothing lives here anymore
Nothing remains 
We all grew up 
And went our own ways 
And nothing is left to prove we 
Ever were there 

Your bike was given to your little brother 

The sun hangs high, a golden blaze,
Filling the sky with unblinking gaze.
It watches over the land, fierce and bold,
Turning the ground to burnished gold.