leave no epic wake
but their ripples crash like tidal waves
on the shores of those most near,
momentous and monstrous
but small enough to hide in a teacup
(with room to spare).
What do we do
with the pouts and sighs,
the manipulative tears,
when the halo of sudden canonization
distracts from all faults
and turns petty accomplishments
We seek grand explanations
hidden in darkness
to soothe our tortured souls.
But the truth, when it comes
a needless snuffing of a candle
for the most ridiculous of reasons.
And so a favored child
turns to blind end, footnote
a name on a chart
in someone’s tallying of distant kin.
This was written for Sunday Scribblings 2.