Poem: The Shape of Hills and Repeated Falling

I stand up on a hillside to watch across the chasm.
Grey skies wander overhead with harrowing clouds glowing as if occupied by spirits.
You stand on your own mound,
hoping to rectify a house.
Floors, walls, stairs, and windows:
a new space for you to dance.

I wonder about the window,
You wonder about the chasm.

As I watch you build, I remember-
There is infinite sadness in the world:
Children stripped of provisions,
Mothers without volition,
Fathers strapped to addiction,
While senators vote to redistrict.
Lovers can’t be honest,
Patriots refuse to seek solace,
Combat infused with no purpose,
Feelings we each hold furtive.

The pale blue eyes that have directed me to and from sorrow glare across the hollow abyss.
I’m coming.
We meet at the edges of the dark void to speak.
“Sorry for how things are,” you say.
“Sorry for how they’ll continue to be,” I say.
We don’t know what we’re sorry for.

I continue my pacing, in regress.
You work toward your building in duress.
Then as the rains begin to fall from the dark clouds,
Each step causes a slip.
Down toward the hollow we forgot to avoid.

Neither of us have reasons for lingering on the steep bank.

We slip down, realizing we know this space.
We slip down, realizing how hard it will be to get out.
We slip down, reanalyzing each other’s disgrace.
We stay down, to hover in the presence of familiarity.
We stay down, to repeat what will echo for years:
“Sorry for where I need to go,” you say
“Sorry for where I am right now,” I say
We each know what the other’s sorry for
Our own selves left in the dark.

And as we climb back out, we promise to change.
The heartache that brought us given primary blame.
Once things are different maybe we’ll find our flame,
But now things are stagnant – reminded of the same.

Another vote gets counted-
39% showed.
Another prisoner compounded-
Right evidence undisclosed.
Three kids molested-
Thirteen years until another’s told.
A soldier gets aggressive-
Losing his liberties to a life he sold.

Each moment that goes by, the hill gets less steep-
the wind eroding the peaks of the rises we keep.
The gully becomes filled with the patches of dirt,
Falling from our hills as we re-craft the earth.
You go back to building,
I make a place to stand,
And we look at each other across the transitioning land.
“Sorry for how it was down there,” you yell.
“Sorry for what the future holds,” I yell.
Each of us not knowing what the other is meaning, 

We continue alone as long as our paths seem worth leading.