Water for the wound

Just the quietness, aaaaahhhh.
Just the quietness.
Just the quietedness... the silence, if you will -
please calm the sound and fury, calm the frustration of these moments.

To continually disseminate the negativity; the separation anxiety from the positive, the anger from the angeredness.
What are we trying to accomplish? Where do I find that...
or do they hand me a bone?
or to give me what they want,
give it now and I go home.

Or the silence?
A possibility?... just the rest...
The quietedness?

The frustrated notions of the correctness perplex tonight.
In the finger swallowing of these keys, the sounds resonating from the caverns;
A hollow skull - I fight the truth of pointlessness.
How many times will going to a dry well produce buckets of water?
If I crawled into a well and stayed for days would I lie?
Broken into a million pieces?
Like some jap tossed aside by the Chinese.

Or is there value?
Do I rise beyond station?
Am I the man in the well who has the answer to the darkness?

For the darkness is perplexing
As it has perplexed since time - since memoriam,
Since a matter to matter was mattered over time.;
And when was that that was.

Starving sensations of children broken and illiterate. Where was what mattered. Political slogans of hungry power. Where was what mattered.
Broken chalk lines lost from the forensic blackboards Where was what mattered.

Or an easy explanation of the right and wrong of things.
In the bunkers of loss, in the comforts of defeat; the hidden gem of the women we loved is still the bitter pill,
An agonizing antagonistic veil of a righteousness;
Then in collapse breath death years crashing a hated reality vision.

I will not share, I will not share,
The kindergarten teachers misunderstand me.
Can you be 5 years old and already be complicit to life's complex simplicity?
Really, I asked that?
These fingers leave me to dry and these thoughts leave me to why.
And the hymn is poor.
The questions sincere
The wrath of time compounding problems into a million sadnesses

Yet screaming Cherubs shout from empty bowls ending sheetless beds.
To sleep never a night again is truly terrifying of a terrific reality.
To never sleep again is an abyss of wanting
To never sleep again, or to sleep forever...
To never sleep again
Shooting an Arsenal at these terrible dreams of inequity.

In a rectory salvation.
Or none at all,
The rub comes quick,
The rub is abrasive
That there is a rub
Is the whole fucking point.