Where was this crowd when my children cried,
when we boiled grass,
when we prayed day and night for a rain of blessing,
faces upturned to catch the dreamed of drops on our tongues,
yet the sky remained empty,
and its silence was a rebuke.
Where was this crowd when the grey men prowled,
and in not-so-secret,
through the brick forests,
wet lips and eyes shining,
for the next wave of broken glass.
Where was this crowd who took my hair
as payment for a crust of bread,
and my black tears as balm for their blistered souls,
who watched when I fell off the cliff over and over,
never dying all the way,
carrying my smashed and broken pieces
in a bruised and battered backpack of skin,
as I made the climb once again…
that pride was not the only thing fallen…
Where was this crowd?
Getting drunk on the poison being given away on corners,
seeking the solace of hand me down righteousness.
Where was anyone?
Where were you?
When I found that I was merely an old story,
a broken book,
whose deckled pages only fit together when slammed shut.
When this ugly carnival finally left town,
leaving the sky standing empty,
and only the scorched grass to remember…