Because I need to be here too…

This is a poem I have tried to write for some time now. It deals with the loss of a loved one, even though that fact is shaded within imagery of the city, any city, but I particularly had St.Louis in mind. As a writer, some things and people turn out to be incredibly hard to write about, even when you are desperate to find a way to. This poem is not complete, perhaps it will never be complete, because that word defines an ending and I don’t truly believe I can create within language all I feel about this person. I hope you enjoy!

Photo Credit: marcp_dmoz via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: marcp_dmoz via Compfight cc

 

Time takes from us what was never ours,

a soft cushion of a memory bends prints

through the searing pain of her haunting death,

the snow and ice took her and I believe it was very cold that stint,

the truck didn’t know what it hit or why

that person inside it suddenly felt something grow lighter

and drift away into what can only be the absence of that dark night,

 

Because that is the way it seems to be like, I see it in a picture,

a round frame and it plays itself over and over, but it is blurry and I can’t see her.

 

And then five years later, I am in a city and the lights beacon desire towards my empty palms,

grass struggles to grow through the cobbles and cement cracks,

people watch their clocks and the sound of fate in sirens round about curves quickly,

all is so instant and slow here it seems.

 

I walk through dark passages of streets with lost paintings on the side of brick buildings,

and I think how someone once raised themselves up and decanted a message I’ll never know or live through.

It peels off now, scatters itself with bad pronunciation and scratched grammar,

but I wonder whether she also saw these lost letters,

 

Perhaps she did when she lived in this place too and I see her there sometimes.

I see her in the urgent pose of the city, like fresh linen candles, like just born cascades of green or displayed art in a small park,

and for a time it is all what it should be and still alive, still blooming, still pretending,

 

still lugging itself about those streets with those paints that drip across the red bricks and run down bodies.

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