The river faded away,
And behind it was the babble of
Lost emotions whispered like
Murmurs cloaked in loud music-ed dance halls.
Behind our eyes are the
Conversations of histories,
Are the gasps of wounded men.
What used to be brooks are now grassy fields,
Glass shattered between the stalks
Though it may be.
I know that the manic smiles
Are more like soap bubbles being
Stirred up and eradicated
That the insults come like
Flattery against your blue irises,
And the toss of your head is becoming more fit for a stage
Than red rose petals brushing the
Polish black shoes of Broadway.
We are becoming a dry, sad people-
A people of many wonders left for the comforts
Of false positivity and shard filled meadows,
Gathering angry dust.