We the shards of disappointed people. Wrecked on decks of distant and impossible shores. The fractured freedom army. The wept and empty, from the collapsing ranks that still must hope upwards to impossible things. Everything hurts and cuts and settles. These lost wishes, these broken dishes scattered over mystic floors. I am in the down of things, the lost and ancient heart that creaks and folds and weeps along glass-eyed bottoms and broken jaws. The man killer flies by night. He sweeps with burning red and daggered sores. He nails into life again and again, taking us down to black and beyond. All these frayed edges from the last nerve I once stood upon. I am naked now, lost in the down pull of broken dreams and luckless draws. My life is so heavy between these walls. Days of square and loss. I am at my self. I have met my stop and all lines burn empty. I have lost my cross. The buddha has slipped his hand from Mary and St George. It is the deep of the hour in the true of the night and we must walk alone. Such is hope. The mind bleeds on its own square, repeating silence into desperate wants. We are on the battled ground. The warring place. The sharpest loss. An ache for normal, a quest for right. MB
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