We are witnesses even if we turn away.
Even if we close our eyes. We, who lean
on language like a crutch. Words, always
words, to transform us into meaning. To
let the shadows find a form. Sometimes,
we shorten words, we make acronyms,
so they will fit into our smallness. Into
our not-saying. When those words
expand, they shatter the light. The sea
shrinks into our cupped hands and the
mottled dark floats in it, its hide crusty
with salt. WCNSF, we have to call them:
Wounded Child, No Surviving Family.
The universe slinks away. The clouds
look for a sky to blame. What sun can
survive this much night? What moon
dares to return? What words can follow
words that should not be? In our palms,
the sea retches, bringing up blood and
god and eternity and a question: Why?
THOUGHT PURGE 
“What sun can
survive this much night? What moon
dares to return?” – very striking writing, thank you for sharing!
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Thank you.
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We are witnesses indeed, and so many are silent ones. The wounded child, no surviving family really hits the heart. Way too many of those, too, more heartbreak than a human heart can hold.
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Way too many… 😦
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Weeping.
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😦
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