Spoken Word

Dear Cousin,

I never met you.

I only met you after you died.

And I am sorry for the way I knew you.

When I lacked perception of-

well perception,

I walked around carrying your story like a trophy.

Showing it off to my friends.

Twisting it to sound like your brutal experience belonged to me.

I mutilated the event to utter extinction.

Until there was no truth left,

but that of what I’d preferred to hear.

I treated your story as though I had created it, and therefore,

had the right to create it some more.

I emphasized the parts that most affected me.

Spared no regard for you; your lost soul.

Screamed words of mistaken glory,

“I HAD A COUSIN. HE DIED. HE’S DEAD.”

As if I had the right to make your death my prize.

As if I had the power to author up the words to decree that death,

is not the worst it could get.

As if I had been through a lot.

You had been through a lot.

Your family had been through a lot.

The vehicle by which you bestowed your last fatal grip,

had been through a lot.

Yet I told that story to its depletion.

Lessening its worth with my worthless words.

It took me 10 years of blundering and 5 after that,

to finally realize that your story,

wasn’t really “your story”.

Just the abrupt ending,

missing a beginning that was just a hollow void to me.

Short and sweet,

your story may be a children’s book-

that doesn’t get a happy ending.

Your story could be a nightlong dream,

told in your wake with so little words it is deemed oblivious.

False oblivion, I assure.

Unintentional ignorance, I promise.

My deferment of empathy lies forever in your favour.

Had I been older,

I’d surely have shed the tears grief calls on before your coffin.

Knelt down at your side,

fists with fingers intertwined,

holding prayers for your soul to find.

For the years your story was tucked away in the forgotten shelf of my memory,

I apologize for pulling it out now.

And not before it lost meaning.

Not before I could still grieve this loss,

send it away with a proper goodbye.

Not before the shelf became overpopulated with new stories,

and yours became old.

Not before the fallen dust could ever mock your ashes,

Not before your pages bore ages of tainted folds and carless holds.

A bitter injustice,

how you were not given enough pages to turn.

An infernal chagrin,

how my ears could have never welcomed the unpolished gospel of your words,

accustomed to muffled truths and pardoned lies,

about who you were and how you died.

A tragic casualty,

how my eyes grazed the verse “The End” way too soon.

The end.

There is no more story to listen,

the rest is still unwritten…

black_rose_png_by_pixasso79_stock-d5c95hk

Tug of War

A simple piece of rope,

strikes a mutual hunger to rend.

Who can guess the winning odds,

before we reach this war’s end?

I acquire abundance,

and you take it away,

Greed feeds us strength,

impairing our giving grace.

There may be no resolving balance,

in this cruel, unbending game.

Cannot promise it won’t change us,

as now we cannot be tame.

This rope we share is only so strong,

knot and cross-composed lifeline.

Tug and pull hard enough,

and what’s yours will no longer be mine.

tug__of_war_by_t_mildner-d6ym52r

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