Mittoo
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Promises - A slight edit.
Orange hues and cobalt blues
- Idyllic descriptions of a bland scene.
It was a Monday, I think. Not that it matters.
They told me she went quickly. Not that it matters.
They promised me 'closure' - whatever that's supposed to mean -
if only I looked at the majestic sandstone and pools of saltwater. Why?
What's in these molecules and atoms,
The puddles by my feet and the bottom,
That seems to promise what words cannot offer?
They promised me peace of mind, but my brain is at war.
The casualty numbers are rising, now,
and peace talks are a long way off.
Talking to the dead always seemed so pointless.
She wouldn’t hear me down there, anyway.
Will she rise from the ground, dressed in that same white dress, pockmarked with crims-
No.
I don't hear her voice any more. Is that a good thing?
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