The mourning call
of the wounded ones
echoes through time.
No one turns
to acknowledge them,
lest the join
their funeral parade.
The day rejoice
and the Sun will come,
but for these poor souls
the day becomes
maudlin in its infancy,
desperate by noon,
and suicidal
by suppertime.
What a place this is
that could be
so live
and colorful,
but at the same time
leave lives to drain out;
black and grey,
and back to white again.
Restored.
HG – 2022
