the birds woke me up this morning.
in a mid morning daze
from a long night
needing to rest well through the dawn,
they woke me
and were adamant about keeping me that way.
trying to gather my thoughts
as i take myself out the door,
words like cars barely getting through the gate.
‘fuck’ slides through no problem
with its inborn confidence
but the word morning
seems to get cut off at the ‘m’
forcing me to shovel it up
from this early traffic jam.
all the other words are carrying out
but if I try to stop and look at them
they fold back on themselves
and i have to read them backwards
as i drive by
and carry it all around the corner.
She saw me then
and I felt ashamed.
Nothing matters anymore,
Not when you see the sky in flames,
The sunset seems premature,
The sky has turned red and orange and black,
All the clouds roil in this beginning of the evening.
Looking up to see this- I smile,
“All is equal”, I say, and chuckle to myself,
“Heaven burns too.”
On this night, I spent my time in a way which I always enjoy, walking around campus having nothing more than a genial discussion with a friend. We talk about benign topics, but they ultimately cultivate into our truest concerns: papers, projects, work. To go back to the beginning of this story, or even before that, as these things always do, there is the matter of exactly where my campus lies. In order to maintain my wonderfully freeing guise of complete virtual anonymity I’m going to keep it generic: nice campus on the outskirts of a relatively large urban area. Being in our guarded and patrolled safe haven has had an interesting effect. By proximity we (being a mildly large group of students) feel we have a right to comment on the happenings around us as though we can truly have a say, and yet, behind our welded gates and our constant patrols, this voice of recognizing the outside element has no real weight. On this night the importance of the conversation pales in comparison to how it was punctuated. I myself have joked casually about being reminded where we live and that there is a life outside this haven, a darker one at that. But now, for the first time I grasp this concepts. There is no winter wind more chilling than hearing that deafening crack cut through the nights air. No longer being able to casually muse at what it must be like, instead being forced to envision it all as fact not speculation. The look on those faces, the blood on the pavement. Above all that unforgettable, echoing… pop, pop, pop.