The Bond

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My condolences in advance

When dawn dawns
When your light proves up
How you’ve chosen one who doesn’t choose you

When without masks, you’ve given freely of yourself
In vulnerability
In honesty

Maybe messy, but as a firework

To a soul-less soul

One steeped in habits of hiding and avoidant attachment
Devoid of words or a will to stay

Champion yourself, champion, and know you’ve fought the good fight

Though you fought alone
Though you shadow boxed

Know that next time, there’ll be no next time
No room for their prose in your poem

Ode To The Students & Those Who Want Them Well

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We are silvering

We are not tinsel, flat
Nor tinny, shallow sound whose echoes won’t be known a year from now
We are, “Mr. Watson, come here. I want to see you.”

We are precious shine
Mined from the deep
Ribbons of pricelessness chiseled from someplace dark we’d entered into
Unknowingly, perhaps, but prepared nonetheless
Thence emerged, the metal of us hard-earned

We cannot be traded, bartered, or sold
We are made of this
We are made from this

Will they see us in next century’s sky?
Yes! And, ’til the 12th of Never

Canyons, ancient, will carry our collective voice

We are silvering, and are not second-place

Our Finest Hour

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Our finest hour

And, Goddamn it, lift your voice

Shriek to me from out of the grey

It has been six years and six months to the day

Set aside your pen

Unpoison your wellspring

Harmonize with me

End the endless justification of silence

Of the dark

Lived lives trump safe lives

Remember?