Old Floridian parchment
Written histories upon ink stains
How to think within today’s tragedies
Wondering how any sanity can remain
We try to build ourselves back up
When the world tears itself down
The ruckus in the middle of silence
The tears when you can’t quite frown
Truth isn’t worth what it used to be
Righteousness has overtaken the price
We struggle to exist without persecution
They’re coming for you, even if we play nice
Who are you when you aren’t the woman of my dreams?
Slight hesitation in the shimmer of your cocktail dress
Writing poetry when we should be making love
In a world of tragedy, how’d I become this blessed?
I’m not proud of my strength
& the tension at its core
Heartbreak of awkward youth
& the pain it always bore
But time passes & we tend to forget
Replaced by tragedy on the evening news
No longer transcribing loss
Nor remembering that fatal bruise
There’s war out here in these streets
The physical city pulses & seethes
Tamped down by hate of denizens
Facts challenging all that we believe
All of society calling for our attention
While our infrastructure remains unstable
Tragedy & crisis revealed every morning
But I still need to put food on the table
Evading their ongoing tragedies
Forty summers spent down in the dirt
Withstanding the weight of apocalypse
Emerging; though slightly less overt
Blast furnace of the afternoon sun
Dali walking barefoot on Tampa’s shores
Pale riders within unabsorbed light
Embracing purity through perception’s doors
The paint of our secret love notes
But can only be read through the keyhole
Shying away from all public renditions
Her passionate words left imprinted on my soul
Captain Q 