Scurra

 

Humans fit as raw material

for sewing patterns, for my plays,

for keeping little sister happy,

for living through these ghastly days.

 

They fit as I was fitting there

in their darkened world of pain,

in their plays of raw material,

in their plays that made me sane.

 

Once I spun around in circles,

ignorant of who might care,

ignorant which pieces broke,

ignorant what they should share.

 

The freaks they showed me what I lacked,

showed me trust and love and care,

showed me them in shattered mirrors,

showed me then what I should share.

 

So here I am, writing plays,

acting, working, crafting, things,

still spinning around in circles,

still telling me I've stopped.

 

 

 

[We fell as other angels did

but unlike them we burn.]