(I) What a good mourning it will be
You tried hooking the Sun to horizon
Because you fear her flare when she’s at her peak
Blinded once by her brilliance
Your aim is to keep her softened, half-risen
Set at a level where you need not lift your chin
Where you need not rise to chase after her
Your brazened sprint East is frenzied and fraught
Believing you can capture that which can never be caught
Until you are blinded by the mirage that is your own thought
On your run to seize her light, those hurried feet will twist
Your fall to death as promised as the rise and shine of the Sun
And when she peers over the horizon tomorrow
What a good mourning it will be
(II) 21,915 Days Later
Do you see me? Across the water,
I see you reaching the sun
and basking in its light.
Over here, it only knows
to throw down flames and
make tears come down scorching,
but it seems that where you are
sight dims the brighter you shine.
Do you remember when we shared a womb?
When we swam in the same waters,
grew together in our motherland,
and ate out of the palms
of our father’s hands?
You once said that in your reflection
you see me, and I wonder if
where you are now,
waters are ever still enough
for you to see yourself.
I am drumming against the shoreline.
Seashells have become fingernails and
The skin on my hands have been replaced
by sand, and as I beat against these crumbling
grounds, I pray.
I pray that the ocean waves
carry the rhythm of my sorrow well enough
to find its way to you, but
the Atlantic is known to swallow
stories whole and spit them back out
drenched with everything but