Reach Out

A thought. A fear. It wasn’t clear -
A want. A hurt. Which came first -
A think. A do. Was it you -
A cry. A plea. Was it me -
A face. A name. Am I to blame? -
A hearse. A hole. I won’t extol -
A word. An end. And I won’t pretend…

No one told me to
reach out and I,
I won’t blame and
I won’t name and
I won’t pretend that I’m never not the same
as if nothing’s changed,
because truth is
everything’s changed.
Since I fell into this grave,
I've learned these things the hard way: 
don't try to be brave.
Don't get hung up on the lives you can’t save: 
because if you fail, it's not all your fault. 

As I look down
- the world IS round,
by the way -
I’m looking into
a treasure chest from the future.
And its riches
painted-perfect-pictures
show me fissures; running rivers,
hurting-gaping crying-crimson weeping-leaking needing stitches -
“oh they’re just attention seekers” –danger, danger, getting deeper!

As I gaze into my treasure chest
I find no tool whose blade can best
that of language: spoken words
it seems are sharper than the sword.
I’ll start to count,
and when I get to four-times-ten
you’ll witness once – and I, again -
the deafening of silent words:
the ones unsaid,
send siren whirrs.

You see, every forty seconds
the bony hand of deadness beckons
to one who loves what most will hate:
the grip of a cold and deadly handshake.
They’ll pray a prayer and sing a song,
but can’t make right, what is so wrong -
a coffin, so deceptively long.
And before the hole is fully dug,
another soul lands with a thud;
a blade, a pill, a ropey hug -
“TOO MANY! TOO MANY SLEEP IN THE MUD!”

It’s time, I say,
there’s been enough
of hiding, lying, ‘getting tough’
because in the end,
all’s said and done:
a life is lost and nothing’s won.