Her poem 'nocturne' adorns my door, confronting me every morning before I leap from my safety into the world outside to give up my bullshit and attempt the integrity Florence died in vain for.
nocturne
only in the greatest need of peace
will you be able to resist
those whose motives lack beauty
our island is punished by winter:
beneath the snowfall we linger, our tongues buried in silence
There's a kind of suffering that requires a stage,
a play,
a monotonous soliloquy
about extravagant vices;
finally in act five, scene one
Truth enters disguised as Manipulation
in the absence of contentment
this world can not continue
and the end will not be
some great crash
(or some great class)
but a mute isolation of spirit
to heal ourselves
we will repair another's wounds
slumber in darkness
until a dream opens
your eyes
your bed was covered with shame once
but now it is quilted
with a passion for empathy
- Susan Scutti
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