We're lying in the silence
where revolutions wax and wane like
the autumn lunar cycle, eloquently circular
and fingernail thin, like our assurances have grown.
Sort through all this mess but isn't every
just a little afraid of getting to the bottom of everything
and finding nothing there, perhaps
not even emptiness, in all its shape-shifting spirit forms.
So change is inevitable, and maybe immutability is
as well, because there could be any number
of unspokens in this transitory zone.
Lift your head into the wind and
wake up now, there are
so many vivid hues and faded greys to breathe in
and out before you leave
so many roads of broken glass to travel down.
We need to smile sometimes
even when it's our secret that we're still
so raw and numb. And your smile looks
so real tonight, even if nothing else is
anymore. So now I know,
there isn't any revolution that wants
to be a part of it
but maybe there's an uprising or a river to cross
or a silvery moon with an ascending ladder
to swing from into the dark and unknown.
So write this in the starlight
in whatever ink you can find or create
because in the end if anything matters it isn't
but what we make of what never will.