Who Knows, the Words

The remnants of it were still
in the morning light.
Still and patient
reminders of the crash.

They sat there in mockery:
Those tea cups and pot
That handful of dates and wad of tissue,
in order to jab a last time or two
before I descended for the day.

The puffing lids were of no comfort,
in fact
their consequence is being felt -
still and patient.

They will eventually deflate
maybe settle,
as does the thumping trouble-maker that instigated
this whole tragic thing.

A doll-baby sunrise dared to peak through
while I dressed,
ignoring the cups.
It was kissing my cheeks and
dabbing at cuts,
but I was in no mood for phony uplifts...

-though the warmth did bestow a gratitude in me for it's kindness-

I still
and patient.

I still,
unsure
of what these subsequent sunrises will bring,
let the production commence with words spoken
hundreds of times
in serial settings.

Yet the wreckage that has resulted;
the breaking of this spinal cord;
the tethering of this stringy hope
and the forecast for an unforecastable day,

it all leads me to know -
it is all proof that this time
I meant it.
I meant it.