I once again find myself drawn to "The Waste Land"—though this isn’t about just the one poem, not really—where so much of the old world exists in motifs in a tattered landscape.
Let us raise our voices, let us be heard, / Justice for the dead, let their voices be stirred
Once, I believed there was a crown on my head. The heart was brimming with life and light Brimming with boundless force to surpass any spread. Among the crowd, I was always one
The pavements are hotter in winter, the rain never wets the asphalt and I never tell you to do anything else other than “be”.
And along with our bodies, the rage keeps on, / we chafe and bleed and clot and steer; / we go mad and nude
And in spite of knowing this/ In spite of the absurdity of it all/ You let yourself fall
Ask me not of Grief. For I have been burnt by its friendly fire with blood and bits of oozing mortal flesh spun flaky and ashen by its biting cold breath.