I see them look up to where
they cannot be.
I feel their wishes collide
with the magnified need
of their wandering, pagan hearts.
The spirits of their departed
float past in silent cloaks of dust,
reflecting our own futures.
They send up their
rockets and space toys,
cluttering their sky
as we watch them
implode.
We will grieve the day
they go dark forever,
and all they knew
floats silently past us
into the past.
Bitterness
clings to some
like a child clutching the hem
of Mother’s dress
as they walk through
deserted, razed, and filthy streets
of a forgotten war zone.
Criticism and rebukes
are the whisky and chaser
of all their verbiage.
Negativity is nectar
to their self-dissatisfaction,
disguised as humorous self-deprecation.
All within the perimeters and parameters
of their voice are never
immune or safe.
Their ever- angry gaze and weaponized words
find cracks and crevices
like a wind-driven hailstorm,
as they rewrite whole hedonistic histories
that absolve them of the impact of their
derisive decisions that affect the lives of others.
Let’s pray for them,
even as we
leave them behind.
Beyond Panic 