I want to sit and stare at the turmoil twirling its cane. I want to gasp in awe at the rocks heaving themselves off the cliff and onto the matted sugar canes.
I want to cry.
I want to cry at the blunders of the tiny men who have yet to finish building your aching heart. I want to cry with the mothers who remain huddled in the doorsteps of a serenading part. I want to sing.
Sing for infamy. Sing for embrace.
Sing to the crows who hover underneath the palacade walls while the sleeping dragons cascade the empty halls.
Breath they cry.
There remains grandeur in your opulence.
There remains beat to your drum.
Blackened hearts rejoice, for there remains light in your flame of none.
Sing your songs young ones
because it is only there that I want to recognize the violence in your heart.