To think that this pain became nourishment.
They drink it up, you see them.
Fertilizer for the future
waiting under the oaks that grow from our eyes.
Our stories become theirs, taken by time, and then taken again, but no, not writ in the stars.
We wait in the soil while they rise to a world of their own choice.

To think that we, who created so many, do not choose our own end.
Fated to trip on a fell tree, destined to die alone in a shrouded cloak?
Our breath brought unity and hope
but its absence brings us only despair.
The us is important, there.
They still have what’s left.

To think that our remnants are crumbs between book pages
Coffee stains on tables, worn
with love but tired still.
We stabbed our arteries for an ink well
Wrote ourselves deep into the paper.
We gave it all up for them, but we loved ourselves all the same.

To think that while they can ascend to heaven
we must fall down to hell.

Oh, the curse of a truth-telling tongue.