Lelia Thomas

The city slumbers
Beneath a glow of artificial light,
A fluorescent buzz and tick.
In the cold-dead night.

I write and sketch in this book,
Looking for reason where there is none
And wondering at the clock’s ticking hands.

Stand in wait of Generosity,
While jobs and cars pass him by,
In an endless cycle of tramping
With a secret itch beneath shirt sleeves.

Time does give way,
And life, so fleeting, does not last.
The days and years no more than seconds—
And present, so quickly, becomes the past.

I see him as no other among men,
His heart’s passion vibrant against all eclipses—
The lines written on his soul, like words of a book,
And I must shade my eyes to take my glimpses.

May no harm touch neither home nor hearth,
And Great Light to you remain gleaming.
Where angels stand at your right,
While joys here are teeming.

The raw and ragged shouts of rushing men
Beneath the grey of a rain-spatter’d night.
The cursing as the timbered-world tilts…

This is my peace,
The answer to the tragedy,
May it never cease—
This mind, this source of life.

Were you as afraid as I was when Mother’s expression finally changed? She went and took Joel from my arms, banked him on her hip and gave his forehead a gentle kiss. I knew it was about Father, then.

The sound of gunfire does not sound like it does in the movies. No matter how surround sound it gets, nothing is like this.

I will be good to you, Fisherman.
Take me in, dry me off;
Make me into what I wish I was.
I can be something beautiful.

My name is not uttered outside of the poorly-written eulogy, and I come to understand that this is a party that only my bloodless body has been invited to.