When we began to write,
no one would read our words.
Ignorance always has been that
soaring, governing gate
forever sealed tight,
its rusted key thrown to the wind.
The messages were clear to us.
We were the only ones who could see them.
We drew twisted lines with invisible ink.
Only our eyes could shape them
into something more.
Action.
Where did our screeches of desperation get us?
Why is it that they stopped listening
when it was us in dire need?
They promised us they would help.
Their promise was a loosely tied, fraying knot
only offering sorrow in the place of hope.
Now I can see the knot falling.
something like slow motion, from a film.
I only wish that this were as make belief.