I have no collection of poems or tiny messages wrapped in wax paper / delivered by little gnomes I see no fortunes ahead / in miniature globes with snow handed to little fingers with pointy wedged toes and there are no fancy delights ringing in our dreams of sugar plum scenes / nonsense to lessen the pain of No! I cannot deliver magic and abundance on twinkle twinkle little star without acknowledging the loss / the tragedy / the sorrow that lands on our door / cleaving open the closed / bitten heart of denial reigning pain / on our cities and towns / onward they march as we cower / we clamor we collide in the streets / the thrumming of the New Year threatens / assaults / our confidence lost in the dreams / some believed / some not / some scurry in doubt / and some— some retreat.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by olia danilevich
The Artist From The Inside Out 
It was a strange and new feeling toward 2021, your piece shows that mix emotions and sentiment.
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Most definitely it was, strange indeed. Thank you, Cassa.
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It is quite like that. Snippets. Thanks so much for reading and commenting.
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Awww, I love the way this poem flows. It feels like we’re getting the story in a string of photographs, and then enjoying the discovery of how they all fit together.
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