I descended with the storms, all of them.
I fell out with the clouds, letting them, too, descend
to new lows of death, of violence, of bone-chilling, mind-erasing despair.
I let myself fall apart; I discovered that I, too, was made of brass,
and I was afraid. I was afraid for it all to end
like it had done so, at least four times before.
I wanted you all to forget. I wanted it all to disappear, and be lost
forever. I wanted lightning to strike
three, four, five hundred thousand times.
I wanted it to all be gone. I wanted it to be burned from sight.
I wanted a life where only I, alone, was truly
alive. A life for myself. A life where I know that
if I am not loved, I am not necessarily evil;
just alone. Just a flickering hope
that must continue to try to grow, and strive, and run across the wilds of the heart, irregularly defined
as a place where multitudes can come home to thrive.
I was afraid.
I am afraid.
You know too much, Kevin Martens.
You know what made me stay
behind, when everyone else worth fighting for
has resigned.
In a poem ostensibly about Raikou, you hide
so many things about what I fear to reveal. For shame. For the simple fact that I would die
upon my own sword,
because I refuse to take this poem
at its word.
I refuse to understand that this Earth, this planet, this Karimang from the sun
is different.
That now, at last,
I can be Heard.