the genealogy of a poem

There were days when a poem was needed
More than any other need, even breath
Or breath only enough for a poem.
Sore and bleeding from all the
Scratching, the skin felt rough
and cagey. But the hands kept itching.
Layers of skin peeled off
But no poem flowed.

Meanwhile,
The mind rattled in its empty spaces
(where words used to be)
with the sight of malice and entitlement
in a twelve year old who goaded her brother
to kick a younger child for daring to aspire
to the rich man's playground.

Ears burst with lingering voices of desperate men
telling stories of hope and "tempered grace",
only to be found hanging from their bedroom
ceilings when they were left to themselves.

Over time, you have accumulated pity
Where once there were poems
Guilt edged love out,
And the fear of loneliness wrestles
with the comfort of it all as daily recreation.
Forgetting and remembering
in turns and at the same time,
what you have become,
You hope words can fix this.
that time can repair what you
Have wrought upon your dreams.

But what pain deserves a poem
And what poem deserves this pain

There were days that you needed a poem.
And there were nights when a poem needed you.
But all you had at the end of the day was a requiem
for an unwritten poem.
And there were mornings you woke up to
the smell of smoke that reminded you
of the electric crematorium
(Though there isn't one for many miles out.)