These chaotic words
in a moment
when the fear overcomes us;
we're clutching to hope
in the form of a pen
and a frantic confession,
revised ad nauseum,
all in an earnest attempt
at any redemption
or even acknowledgement
that we're here.
Desolate screams
from the canyon
between expectations;
we're not how we seem:
unkind and unclear
and blurred past the thresholds
by waves of uncertainty
here in our unquiet despair
with the revelations,
near our sad disrepair
and the isolation.