The Lonely Genius

Walked across the ruble, all that remained

Of the war he saw coming


The Genius was warned

Do not exist too loudly, as not to frighten

The minds of those who could only see


The Genius plotted

He hoed, he sowed, he weeped

He waited


The Genius prayed

He listened, he doubted

He waited


The Genius forgot

He slowed

He stopped


The ground rumbled, slowly

Hungry


The Genius shook with all the world

Watched as it tumbled at his feet

Surrendering to the sky


The Genius died

Leah Proctor-Ford is 20-something working hard to figure it out. She lives in Detroit, like generations of Fords before her, and writes for catharsis.