If I were the kind of man
Who kept notebooks that made plain the pain,
Wounds within the heart, pages upon pages
Written, flowing from the pen, then
Places would document the hurt in silence of the night,
Recorded as in some book kept upon the highest shelf.
Instead I never write a paragraph, not a single word—
Keep so many secrets in my weighted,
Yearning dog-eared heart,
Folded within silence, no words scribbled
Painfully in lonely hours of night.
As it is, the only confirmation lies
Within the scars, pounded into bone,
Carved cursive ponderings registered as curse—
No one ever writes me back,
For better or for worse.
Sometimes there are no second chances.
Whatever years lie imagined in a momentary sigh,
Past words unspoken crumble into dust,
Cannot be resurrected where there is no breath.
Death comes a day at a time… Let go…
“Forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
Forgive yourself and all the others, too
When Memory’s voice arrives,
Still clear on dark and lonely nights.
Let go… Forgive… Breathe…
Last night I dreamed she pushed
Darkness back, until she saw her father
Standing clear within the steady light,
Gently reaching, words trembling from parched lips.
He never once stopped loving her,
His voice caught between clouds and Earth,
Bipolar atlas spinning in his heavy heart
And I awoke to die again, cry again alone—
“Forgive them all, for they know not what they do….”
Let go…. Forgive…. Wake up…. Arise….