Poezja

How difficult it was to
remain a simple truth,
as passive grass
with no frills.
 
I was ready to talk
heart to heart.
 
You cannot stand all the ink,
writing, simple verse, furtively.
 
What was eating you up,
I asked the milkweed.
"On this summer, monarchs
were not coming to breed"
it said.
 
I felt the unease. Grappled with the
amount of pain, at tiny thoughts.
 
The scale and brutality
of the times, the throats slit open.
 
Like a clam you shut up.