With burning proof

I’ve ostracized the mess.

Look close into the deep ravine

and try to find 

a place where pain cannot impose.

it does not exist.

Tragedy has summoned me

from this unconscious state,

and how tight my grip

around the grief does hold.

But it’s just mortal material.

This alone should compel a paper soul

to respond with finesse

before the collective groan 

finds its way into our ears.

The multitudes cry out.

Wounded with ignorance,

to the brim with despair,

there is no room for hope.

There is no niche.

Only the fervent outgrowth

of our minds.