Take all that mad that you feel
and pry it from the back of your eyes
and put it in your hands
and run it under water
and work it along your scars
and make some sculpture
of the achingly beautiful
that few can understand
(and even less will appreciate)

and do it not because it is wanted
or because you must
but because we will all need it
on a lonely morning
like this one
in this broken world.

You must allow others time to grieve
for things they have lost
and for the people
who have not yet left them.

People are the strangest animals,
but in my short walk,
I have met animals --
birds, dogs, horses, fish
(even cats) --
who are more human
than the face peering back at me
from across
this tiny window
as I write these poems,
hoping to finally understand
why it feels like it should be raining
when all that surrounds me
is endless sky.



Copyright © 2017 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

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