Unbreakable (poem)

You see it in her smile,

you hear it in her voice,

the burden of her pain,

the weight of her love.

How long has it been?

When will she give up?

How does she manage?

When will she break?

It's like she's drinking lemon juice,

when there's water right there,

and she's smiling her way through it,

too strong to give up.

You see it in her smile,

you hear it in her voice,

she is a tempest of flame,

and she will not be extinguished.

She's incredible,

all the demons of Hell

would be far from enough

to stop her march.

Her steps may be tired and slow,

but the ground burns at her feet,

the ashes turning to cement

to form the path she's forging.

You see it in her smile,

you hear it in her voice,

she will march on

because she is unbreakable.

-Zero

Here we are again (poem)

So we're here again,

at this familiar goodbye,

removing locks from lockers

and cleaning them out.

Here we are again,

final papers,

final exams,

final marks.

The halls are empty,

full of goodbyes

to the students already gone

to find some rest.

A new cycle,

a new group,

waiting to leave

before even here.

These red bricks were home

for the past years,

but now goodbye has come,

like passing someone on the street.

But here we are again,

graduating away,

leaving our lockers and halls behind,

to be filled again.

-Zero

In the End (poem)

In the beginning,

every goodbye catches you.

In the beginning,

there is always time.

In the beginning,

the end is forever away.

In the end,

only your goodbye catches you.

In the end,

there is no more time.

In the end,

the beginning is just the day before.

-Zero

The French Horn's Lament (poem)

The lament of a french horn

echoes through the empty hall,

its sound attempting to fill the void,

like the cries of the bereaved.

Like going to confession

only to find no one listening,

its desperate notes cry out

only to be lost in silence.

It's a sad concert,

not one ear to hear,

so it's as if it isn't happening-

the void wraps it up.

The lament of the french horn

fades from the empty hall,

its sound becoming the void,

like the passing of the bereaved.

-Zero