I’m at the entrance of grief
where even nightmares weep,
children fit in boxes stacked
until there’s no air in the shed.
The guardians of this crime
are the children of the killers.
May or may they not know
what their parents did ages
ago, still singing near the door.
The shed hides unstoppable
music boxes, these guardians
hear music they afford to ignore,
if they know, if they know, why
do they still protect unethical
maps? These guide us to anger,
reject difference, fallen repetition,
fail to grasp the repercussion
of letting our nightmares creep
into a becoming reality. It seems
logical to stack boxes, it begins
to be reasonable to hear music
if there are boxes, it is proper
to fill a shed if it’s in a vacuum
of morality, slowly children fit
standard boxes. If once no one
was there, how can children be
there? It’s a vacuumed space.
The dead cease to exist. Logic
is twisted until the unthinkable
is logic or lack of thereof, by then
children outside the crimson shed
don’t care. What matters is only
themselves, even the nightmare
weeps when a child stops caring
about other children, becoming
the next killer in a sequential
repetition that doesn’t accept
difference by their pace. Today
there’s a shed, if this continues
the next generation of children
will need something larger than
life itself, not even a warehouse
could fill the grief of generations
being stacked inside music boxes
playing The Unanswered Question.
The double entendre of good will
is that for what one considers ill
will, the other doesn’t in a battle
of wills to define common sense.
I’m at the entrance of grief, I see
the children stacked inside boxes.
I have spent a life trying to undo
the script life has handed to me.
I’m far from emptying the shed.
If it’s not me, not you, the blood
shed won’t stop, the historical
order must be disbanded but
the king in turn won’t change
anything, realize that to become
the child that takes those boxes
and places them in the plazas
where on Sunday they gather,
open them so they can hear it
play The Unanswered Question.
Answers? Doesn’t matter. Too
distant, so many too convenient.
Common sense? Less. Folded.
Awareness? Yes. Can you see?
Consciousness? Patience heard.
You are who I am. I am. We are
the melody expanding the confines
of a trapped mind as the role play
of old scripts that sound rational
begin to appear false as they are,
have always been, as we realize
it could have been me, not him,
not her, otherwise inside a shed.