A Quiet Kind of Violence
Reason combs through wreckage
looking for order
where none exists.
Reason has never bled,
never slept in chairs
beside a diagnosis,
planned a funeral
like shopping from a catalog.
A soft word, reason
like fate, used to explain
the pain of others—
never its own.
The sky stills.
The world collapses
with no lesson
carved into the aftermath.
Just whispers from
those untouched by tragedy:
“It all happens for a reason.”
*
Her Sky
I sit next to her bed.
Machines powered down—
failed saviors turned spectators
shoved in the corner.
I squeeze a hand
that can’t squeeze back
as goodbye splinters
behind my teeth.
I stare through a window
as if the sky has answers.
Her sky—
wrung out and trembling—
holds ash like an urn
until it fractures,
spilling embered hues
into the hush.
The sun falls—
a funeral at noon.
*
Todd Wynn is a pediatric nurse living in Mansfield, Ohio. He recently began writing poetry as a way of working through past grief and understanding how that has shaped the way he sees the world around him. His work has previously appeared in ONE ART.