I have no idea
Why
I am in this prison
I feel like John
Locked away on Patmos
A life full of memories
And no one to talk to.
So I write some of it down
But the real stuff rots
In my head for lack of interest
As a world with no tomorrows
Has little use for yesterday's
People.
Oncein a while I
Sneakout on the town
Forspecial events
Yetin between I seem
Kinda like the hideous
Christmas sweater
No one wears
In he sunny south
Exceptmaybe to get
The eggnog elixir
Atthe office party.
Butthe modern day letters
Thephone calls, texts
Andsometimes prayers
[It'snever "only' prayers]
Andthe photographs
Allkeep saying
Didn'twe make life better
Mostof the time?
Sowhen or to whom should
Thosestories be told?
Whowill care?
Towhom will it matter?
Andif it matters only to me
Thenshould I still
Writethem down
Orjust keep them buried
Andrecognize that my life
Wasbut a ripple
Astatistic
ACypher.
Fadingaway
Unnoticed
Quietly
Am Ireally still breathing?
Stealingoxygen
Inexchange for exhaling
Plantfood.
Werethe aging ever
Trulyrevered
Seen as fountains of knowledge
Ortellers of tall tales that
Werereally true
Butnot what they read in textbooks?
Whostole our children
From a time when
Thirdcousin once removed
Wasas much family
As the sister who sends a card
Tholiving far away?
Whotold them family
Was a curse word?
