by Lucia Martinez-Castro ’23
Majestic walls that reach up
And brush the clouds with their delicate embrace.
Rolling hills that sweep with the wind and sing in the cold.
And at the heart of the home lays the start of it all,
Tendrils of smoke that curl out of windows in wisps,
And bright laughter that echos in empty sound,
Where the morally right do morally wrong.
Here lies the corpse of the poet who could take it no longer
Of the leader who thought to destroy what he had once loved
Of the father who had forgotten to love the son he left behind
Of the friend,
Who left the child to fight their battles alone.
Here lies the fractured glass from his beautifully broken mind
Here lies the murky wine that leaks from his empty heart
Here lies the mystical soul that spills from his guts and pools around his shattered pieces
Flowers don’t grow here.
Neither does grass.
Even the wind quits its shouts.
Even Mother Nature herself avoids the body of the man who had once been.