O!
how my heart
–true master in the art
of self-torment
w/ few peers who can
qualify as equals–
would welcome even
the merest hint of a whimper
which would be a deafening bang
compared to this
dead silence
and what am I to do
w/ this ½ a handful
of sketchy hypotheticals
–the most tangible suspects
I have at my disposal
to name and identify–
that fail to fill in
the martian canyon-sized void
left behind in the burnt remains
might I
–earthbound exile
condemned to wander
this landlocked limbo–
yet find a sliver of hope
for even the remotest
possibility of deliverance
at the sight of that
chevron of geese
migrating to northern warmth
* * *
but, alas,
I’m afraid this broken circle
is doomed never
to fully close
and, thus, heal itself