When a writer pens a love letter,
those words will never grace his lips to another,
or fall on ears more deaf than yours.
When a writer writes about you,
he writes about all that was,
he writes about all that could be,
he writes about all that is,
he writes about all that will never be again.
What will you tell your children, your grandchildren, your great-grandchildren in 50 years? Will you tell them it wasn't your place, your responsibility, your place to stand up and say something?
Will you read them the memoirs of Holocaust survivors? The memoirs of Holocaust victims that never made it out?
I find myself lost in the big big world
Reaching for hands and desperate for straws
Beneath the cries for help
Stands a man sinking in the sand
I know where he's been
Know what he's done
2017 marked a turning point in the celestial trajectory of my journey. I rang in the New Year sitting alone in my room drinking a bottle of champagne and found myself single, unemployed, discouraged, and directionless. I sat here staring at my keyboard, my screen, my life in sentences and my sentences in life. I reflected upon the tally of my life as it stood naked in the mirror glaring back into my eyes. I reflected upon the poem, “The Man in the Glass” (1934) by Dale Wimbrow
Before we let ourselves consume each other in a cesspool of fears and choices as tears streamed down our faces, our voices cracked under the screams we never heard a word of from the voices above pleading their cases for us to just listen, relax our stiffened backs, and move ahead with a dash of tact for our love pact.