Here is where the midnight cracked us,
tracked us down and stole our song.
Here is where our weary hearts split open,
crazy broken on too-thin shattered strings.
Here is where the dreams we had as teens
(all those raging in-betweens)came to die.
This is where we keep our magnificent mourn
-ing, our unquiet longing, our stilted sorry.
This is our own private lost and found (and
lost again), our never-win, our forgive me,
for yes, I have sinned. Again. Again. This torn
-ado silence, this violence, this place burned
brave and tough and deep, it’s steeped in salt
and antifreeze and a pinch of ink. We think we
are warriors, shattered strong. We know we are
stained glass. A glint of sun. A moonlit gasp.
In November, we poem. This is the one with all the prompts.