On a hill where wars were once waged,
sits a willow that weeps when it rains.
It calls to the gods with each blow through the sky;
earthed in the pasts remains.
The faces and sounds and bloodied grounds;
a twisted carnival of shame;
hard to breathe
even harder to believe
that the sunshine isn’t a mocking lie,
when it filters in with whispered hope,
that it desperately needs.
On a hill where wars were once waged,
a girl lies beneath a weeping tree, pretending.
that hope isn’t real, and that all she can feel
is her own porcelain pain bending.
Submitting to her longing for a sense of belonging
to more than just the whims of an ill willed fate;
fanciful fetishes of a cruel universe,
a plan less torturous than the daily reminders of,
a reflection with intentional oblivion to beauty;
when hope is denied. And hope is declined.
Even when it is desperately needed.
On a hill where wars were once waged,
The moss grows a brighter green.
The weeping blue, seeps right through
to the truth beneath the bones. Even when you’re alone.
Lean into the pain, especially when it rains,
and raise your face to the sunshine that follows.
Believing in hope,
really believing in it,
means counting the seconds in between each lighting strike,
and grinning,
before you step out into the open.
Be brave.
Move.
There is a patch of grass beneath the weeping willow
that needs sunlight.
Love you, J.
Mocking Bird Down 