No One Wants to Play

Born weeping and fair faced on a Monday,

I came a dormant geologic storm,

spewing hatred at golden birds of prey,

still cupping my trembling breasts to their form,

for I would rob the sky of rain and calm

for a possibility of long love;

in song cut my swathe in a full dance hall;

the witnessing; a final hand in glove.

My glue song warbles, hung on bated breath,

witness to lonely incapacity,

when the sea pulls on the last of my breath.

Clement seas are still wed to destiny.

Come Friday, no neighbors left to play with,

above is everything a sky can be,

and oily seas lap the edge of my breath,

the looming peace of death as I balloon.

The grass on the other side browned in war,

one passed is no more, one’s past is no more.