The night carried
more
than the full moon
could hold.
Living over hours of water
the relentless cries
surged a deeper darkness.
The ears of my heart
were pierced
torn open
there will be no mending
under this moon.
I a helpless witness
antagonized by tiredness
taunted and weak
and the speed of light
could not bring comfort.
Walking among rows of open graves
gaped mouths
mesmerized by silent screens
untortured
by the torment of helpless parents
of a tormented infant
sent into a deadness
I was afraid to find.
Trampled like yesterday’s newsprint
I waken in a slow cadence
to where I once was
a dream is discarded or should I say
overwhelmed
by a more dimly lit life.
The Ears of My Heart
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Critica is an inclusive and transdisciplinary publishing platform that focuses on offering a reflective and aesthetic space to consider social and cultural issues through a psychoanalytic and creative lens. It is also a forum for ideas at the intersection of psychoanalysis, creativity, philosophy, and the social sciences.
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