Poetic

A year passes in the wake of an insurrection, only a year though it seems like pages of a textbook now, were we really there to see it? and the truth is we saw it, but we also had to be at work because Real Americans work through a coup, always have. I wake in the middle of the night with unknown aches, what else is new, I lie staring at the darkness while the pills kick in, and find comfort in the dark stillness - I have reverted to my country roots, have forgotten how the constant buzz of the city used to soothe me. In April 2020 I walked to midtown and heard birdsong, it was a strange time, it was a fairytale the kind where you haven't yet gotten to the happy ending. 

When morning comes, I wake late, linger in bed. Read my stories, read other stories, remember what it is that awakens when I have stillness. Of course this cannot last, if we must work through a coup then we must work through a stillness, at some point rent will need to be paid, but there's a sprout here that demands watering, there's a sign of life here that has made it through every fire you've thrown at it, when you look back on your life you will look only for signs that you cared for what grew in you, only that which brought you light. 

Everything else is only padding for the flowerbed.