I come from a line of shattered things <br />and throw away paper planes that flew for a moment <br />from steadfast sadness acres over <br /> <br />it’s hard enough to grieve alone <br />harder still when you find the truth and <br />then, freeze frame, you’re stuck <br /> <br />and you can’t move on with the official <br />story because it doesn’t make sense anymore <br />you can’t just bury it like your dead cat in <br /> <br />the yard and plant colored tulips all round <br />to make it pretty-no, it casts a shadow over everything <br />you see, and everything you do <br /> <br />death, that is-real death, not the lovely, tearful kind from war <br />movies with soundtracks-No, it’s the cyclonic kind <br />that leaves a wild rash on your soul <br /> <br />and never stops itching until you tend to it’s secrets; <br />that knowing detains your brain and harnesses your heart <br />you dare not speak as your words make colossal bulwarks <br /> <br />crumble into dust, thundering and blasting what remains <br />until the lies begin once again to build <br />and shatter things<br /><br />Amy Whittlesey<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/shattered-things/
