Apr 12
Icarus Blackmore's picture

Interrupted Poem

I saw the ice on the lake fall back,
Revealing deep greens and blues.
The water lapping in what was,
Almost a sort of apology—

Three dead. 
Not your typical shooting,
A woman,
YouTube Headquarters.

The chilly winter air is still,
And quiet, almost too quiet. 
The bus is not, it rattles on.

Text a friend,
Let them know.
The same one,
I texted before,
About how to stop,
These types of things.

Quick words pass,
In an almost silent exchange.
If a conversation is never spoken,
But between two people,
Who’ve spoken those words,
Many times before,
If you call for change,
But receive polite quiet,
Does it count?
Have you really made a sound?

Out there it is cold,
In here it is warm,
Out there people are dying,
In here I’m safe-
But I’m not.
That is an illusion that
Cracks like winter ice
Stumbling backwards
In a sort of apology,
It’s absence the only,
Thing reminding me of it’s presence.

I reach for my friend,
Only to be reminded,
She’s on another bus,
Hurtling the other way.
Tragedy threaded between us-
Like telephone wires, it connects us.

But how can be connected,
When what brought us together,
Was our shared hatred of
These tragedies?
I don’t know,
I just want them to stop.

For I detest the sound of the ice,
As it cracks on a warm day.
The lap of the unforgiving water,
As it consumes it melting it away.

Yet as deafening of a sound as that is,
Above the rumbling of the bus
It could not be heard.

—Or rather it would be,
If the water that lapped at the ice,
Had not rushed to meet the sun,
That melted the ice under its heat.