Saint Sigismont

She kneels

hero-ing a pastel pink pacifier

like armour

.

crouched at the base

of his stone bed,

knee’s cobble etched

and grey

.

each headstone commemorates

this playground of acid smoke

and bravery

.

as she twirls within it,

refusing to claim life’s great anguish

.

she transforms before my eyes,

her tiny stature now a picture of colossal courage

for she does not question the grey

.

that all-encompassing grey

that inevitability surrounds us.

.

You know the one -

so eager to force your hand

.

she does not cower

at the sight of

this overgrown death-bed

or the greedy red mouth of grief

.

Instead,

she washes it with hands of purity

.

in an instant,

like a mosaic of human experience

she etches her way into my skin

.

and now,

I see overgrown weeds

a powerful pastel pink

.

I see the beauty in grey

.

I remember,

somedays you have to dance in graveyards