I.

The poor surround thee,

and cannot thou listen,

at the door of conscience

and realm of pity.

The blue day succumbed

to rose

at journey’s end.

and my fair head, a distant

thunder, crashing to shore.

the waves are without pity

and the stones, vibrant and bright.

Oh stones, and I

upon thine altar,

bright and torn.

   Emily Isaacson

III.

And last dance,

a trumpet now forlorn—

a moment of grateful heaven

opened and I, sombre.

hair, pulled tight and smile

strained and born to

breathe, tear, and mend.

    Emily Isaacson