Owl Song

The barn is barren. There are no children
playing in the loft above or on the ground,
no baker making bread or building confidence
from energetic frequencies, no mothers

or young lovelies swaying rhythmically
nor sad eyed monkey dinging ringing cymbals
no humming strings, no screeching feedback,
no colors speaking from the frames above,

no joy, no love. A mask hides nothing
and ball point pen cartoons fade far
too soon from staircase walls. Art
is dead and yet, there is beauty

in sorrow, in grief that bleeds gaping silence
in the wake of violence, in how it leaves us
clinging to all that is no longer, though the songs
have gotten far too sad for anyone to dance to.