Dashed Upon

Exactly what am I supposed to say?
Just how am I equipped to speak about
despair? Abandonment? A leaving out?
The sunk and twisted knife, no place to stay,
no place to go? Those dreams about the day
that one might wake and not remember bouts
of fear, days when paradise is stout
and doesn’t run, but stops to watch the play
of morning light? No more speaking. Now’s
the time to listen—sharpen, hone the art
of hearing other voices cracked with pain
but speaking nonetheless; and hearing how
they travel through their days, and hope my heart
will kindly let them all come home again.

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