For Hope, I Needed by Amna A. Alvi

Am I not
A singer’s voice, an artist’s paint?
Am I not
A composer’s notes, a writer’s words?

Oozing thick and the deepest shade, what do I bleed?
Numbness, that stills me against racing time
Guilt, that chokes me with its hands
Agony, that caresses me as I beg
Justice, that evades me like a thief

What have I lost, between woven art?
The tempted suicide, the whispered rage
The ugly redemption, the twisted confusion
Does it matter if it ends, or is there more value?
Does meaning cease to exist when a person does, or is the form just changed?

When death is the truth that calls, I give an answering cry
Whether to embrace it like a lover, or fight the chains it tugs
When I become a fading name amongst the lines of stones
A single flower grasped between your fingers

Come find me.