The World is Listening.

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Even when I’m not speaking,
the world listens.
When I try to speak
and the words reverberate
off sun-scorched, jagged peaks,
and sail down to dried up rivers below,
and bounce in the emptiness
of my head that knows
no longer,
the world is listening.
There is no quality of
judgement, the ears,
soft and receptive.
We are finding fault in others,
and deep, deep within,
a gash of torn hopes.
But the world is listening
through our sad cries
and all our lashing out,
and more,
the world is loving,
and has never stopped
loving us.

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What Remains of Us.

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Looking ahead
to where the field
is a freeze-frame
after the fire,
the sun persists
in the golden season
of the dried and crackling.
For now, I don’t
see past the
browned pastures
and the desert
I imagine
that lies beyond
for its lack of
what lives and
lives on.
But in my dreams,
where colours always matter,
the sun is rounding
the bend, gleaming amber,
being where it’s
always been,
for what of us
remains. – TS