We Need to Drink the Steam

Your throne is empty
despite a sceptre made of aqua, concentric hearts.
The world spins –
it shakes its head
over the vacuum left behind,
when compassion
went packing.

We white wash the news.
We numb the senses
with liquid or pill.
But you –
you are incomparable.
Come back.
We beckon you,
in earnest,
for the chance to kneel
at your feet –
to visit the burning labradorite star
left hanging in the sky.

We retreat,
and the walls are covered in graffiti.
No full cup, spilling with blame,
can possibly cleanse this,
so we paint with our veins –
throw up our arms
and dance with eyes closed,
just to awaken the other senses.

We Need to Drink the Steam

If you listen closely,
you can hear the twelve noon bells
singing.
You can smell fresh dough baking –
the white steam of it hangs in the air.
Blades of grass reach for it
and drink.