the sound inside oneself

the sound inside oneself

there never were enough poems written

to make the dead feel loved; to make her

arms stop bleeding, praying for her bones to be different.

but revolutions are too quiet; too

mellow from the bullets, not hard

enough to stop him from jumping.

crawl through their ashes and spray paint

what the dead so desperately needed

before they were pushed so far out

that the cliff never existed; before all the love had left their faces.

sometimes the revolt starts with the sound inside oneself.