The words I used to write

The words I used to write were (overly) precious,
thought-bombs infused with angst of indentity,
scented like ingenuity and the quiet life.

The scenes I used to create were digitally altered photographs
in black and white print, memories from real life,
other people's dreams and loneliness.

When I would write it was a compulsion, on travel, on longing.
Surges of words swirling inside, a short distance
to capture them on paper.

When I would watch I sat and immersed myself in stranger's worries,
bleak interactions at the grocery stores of suburbia,
put myself in their shoes to see if it felt right.

What was mundane was crucial, the shade of light
a barrier a tone poem a melody
with shadows the players.

What was once an outlet for confusion
replaced by the righteous anger of the newly baptized.
No trial by fire could have been more purifying than to see the world in all its allegory. . .

The words I used to write were innocent butterflies pulverized
by the bullets of war and when the lovers of this earth cried out
seeking a ceasefire, I merely turned the page of the newspaper.