This poem is everything that happened
before the flood. Our distinguished dark
-est hour prayers. A small nod to our
tired of trembling souls. Please excuse
our penchant for privacy and paradise
lost, the small filament findings that clasp
our hands. We are warriors in waiting. We
are glimpses of glory. We are embers, burn
-ing brightest in the storm. We are every in be
-tween thing you cannot promise, or gain.
We are forgiveness, kissed betrayal. Tornadoes
of silence and cymbal-clashed song, starving
for some semblance of star-stung sky. Hold us
bright and cold in clamored clouds. Let it rain.
In November, we poem.