And we look up towards the heavenly hellish night sky. We reach up. We reach out. We grasp for one last touch to hold. One last glimpse to cherish perpetually immortalized in our hearts. Burned into our retinas. Etched onto our chests. Frozen in time as a ghost of a time past. A ghost of where we stood last. A ghost in Pompeii.
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