Perhaps, Dennis Morris

I, intrinsic daughter, cry into the nightless night and 
Discreetly a tear falls from my cheek.
A reflection catches itself
In a spinet of webs and
Alone in anguish,
A spider sits.
I ache at the thought of resounding pain and
Forced into happiness among the trees,
Grins of masked eyes stare at me and
Wait to smile.
Perhaps the Earth moves slowly without a
Thought of despair and
Perhaps we make of it, unintentionally, a horrific
Time warp of shattering volts.
I can make of my life
A happy swamp filled with flora for a thousand.
But my bones,
A barren wasteland of hope,
Are left to quake the earth for billions of centuries to come.

Elizabeth Choat