to the point of breaking

where we wait
our hands bound
our tongues tied

the vision of the end
where the darkness
never seeps away

the cool mouth of Spring
that refuses to bring
the seeds to life

our penned names
on screens of deafness
uncompromising

a blanket of despair
draped across
rigid bones

the poor
the weak
the disillusioned

the mute
the troubled
the torn

where we wait
and reflect upon patients
that never settles

where we stand
and take our last breath
like a shuddering machine

and it all remains motionless
in the steady stream
of blood spilled

from a time when we
worshiped inaction
and complacency

so few stand their ground
where we wait
with batted breath

for nothing to change

for no one to care