by Sylvia Stout

in the beginning was the word
and the word was lost.

its disappearance came at great costs
to those who once wrote the
song of a bird, read the
chime of a bell,
this beautiful hell-

a shelf to stack your dreams upon
a ledge to collect
the dust of our ashes
facist lust! this
once robust society
now a mere crust which crumbles
beneath the weight of a crushing apathy


lack of empathy, the great collapse
could never be a
consequence of our inadequacy!

these subtle casualties
under rugs swept with such ferocity-
no luminosity could
unmask this atrocity.

so we wait-
with breath abate-
for time to heal
the wounds we create.

this tragic state;
our fate is sealed
with the wax of our stagnation.
utter indignation…

until we’re brought to our knees
by the gravity
of our inaction