Banners

There is a howl
that echoes in a ragged hole
where I rarely hear
the wail of my own need,
anger pulsing aimlessly.
All these stories of love
denied, light
covered, joy
squelched in the mud of propriety.
Salt from unshed tears
lining my rancour,
a chemistry of resentment
cracking the base
of all these pedestals
tumbling.
I have my proofs of hurt,
red banners fading to white,
carried for the oft-imagined day
of reckoning and truce.
But as light works its decay
on the pigment of my stories,
even white banners are weakened,
absorbed in the tremors
of a silent moan escaping,
a bitter wind astringent,
wiping me empty.
Here where all is lost,
the breeze has more space
for bumping,
dangled shards of my heart
touching like chimes.