It was sobbing woke me 

Same sobbing that sparked my creativity three days 

After the death of my neighbor's son

 

At times my creativity comes from the blessed shadow

Tragedy, grief, and loss want to give me a gift 

With each new rising mourning

 

It was the witching hour

When moonlight is all that I work by

With my eyes closed 

I drew what felt like a face

Yet maybe only to me

My head tilted back, my brow furrowed

I didn't know my intuition could scream out

It is hard to bare this weight 

Such distress

Each new breath caught in my throat

And my intuition whispered

It is hard to bare this weight

Such injury

My neighbor's sobs slowed

Yet I could still hear their breathing

It is hard to bare this weight

bodies no longer here

The faceless many killed

I opened my eyes and continued to draw

Draw breath

Bringing the face into a form that others might recognize 

Whose face is it?

The killed, the killer 

the witness who whispers...

Stop the killing

As my neighbor went silent

My eyes opened and closed

Searching for any detail that might 

Illuminate the face in front of me

 

Then I wrote

WANTED

tears, poems, art, 

voices

the killed, killers

and witnesses 

wanting all to

stop the killing

 

There is a REWARD

 

I put down my journal

And felt

The hot wet burn of tears

Of inspiration

Until I fell into rest again

Until I fell into creativity again 

Until I woke again