If I Were a Poet

Gasping in the moonlight,
I lean on the rock of ages,
my despair as hard as the granite against my hands.
Like fleeing prey in a dead end canyon
I kiss the pillar and beg my
tormentor to spare me this night.

My skin, frozen and cracked—
A slave, sweating in a steaming factory—
In the outermost heaven above us all
a goddess raped by the stars—

Each one’s suffering is unique and intricate,
but from a distance they all blur
into a vast expanse of white.

Next time you hear the wind moaning,
know that it is not just the air,
but the voices of every living creature
speaking the shared language of pain.