oh unlucky thirteen, they tell me the next one
will be better but I don't believe in stars anymore.
the rigmarole was finally too much for the spark of
hope to bear and like an anvil it squashed the whites
of my pupils. that bright light is buried, much as
the one who loved me, cradled me, birthed me by proxy
told me, warned me for the last two decades and now his
sorrow has strangled him into silence. below this
interminably gray sky and the incessant mist of a confused
foggy threshold between seasons I beg you to usher in
a different ode to the new year that the flame of my soul
might shine through, resurrect his beloved toddler and
wash away the disappointment we have etched into his face.
