My Friends Want Poetry

that sings of moonlight
    scattered over peaceful shores,
       that rhapsodizes the glory
          of a summer stream

my friends want charming rhymes
    about gardens resplendent
       with the Hawthorn’s
          rosy bloom of spring

about buttercups that droop
    their sleepy heads
       and spread their golden
          tears upon the dewy lawn.

But I want poetry that stings,
    that opens wide the chasms
       of our sleeping souls
          that guts our pithy little dreams

       and lays bare the skulking,
          shadowed lives we hide behind.

                                         Aleigha Siron