Joy fills the laughter of your body.
It is true and honest as the brook
bustling over pebbles, pretty
flowers dressed in sunshine,
far flung city lights gay
as the wind. No one sees the blink
in the smile, the soft sigh
escaping from the grin
like how a tree bows before
the storm, or how ants flutter
around the petals of dead plants.
Alone, in your darkness, you
offer prayers, you beg for anything
to save you, you crouch low
as the candle light on the floor,
you tell the ground to take you.
In the morning, you dress your body
with a bounce and flourish,
your bones filled with hidden
warmth and laughter erupting
to the surface. Everyone says you
are always happy and a go lucky
fellow. You only wear long sleeves
to hide the wounds. The cycle
continues. Your wounds will
not heal, yet the ground will
not take you. Your prayers
are not heeded, so your fragile joy
is your heaven and thus,
the cycle continues.
