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Just because we didn’t see it,
doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Just because we don’t agree, doesn’t mean we shouldn’t listen. Just because it’s not our struggle, doesn’t mean we turn away. We cannot close our eyes, Just because we don’t relate. Just stand beside each other. In each other, simply trust. And not just because, but rather, because it’s just.
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 Rush hour moves
like a Sunday drive replacing the memory of silent skies, while ghostly walks echo the whispers, from drawn shades and dimmed fixtures, echo the whispers of bills we can’t meet of worst case scenarios and the weight that they bring to empty pockets and empty eyes on screens, empty hearts that listen to empty guarantees, echo the whispers of Nana’s novenas echo the whispers of the little one’s prayers for an end to tapped elbows and his parents’ despair for an end to this distance from teachers who dare to keep him engaged in subjects that mean nothing in a world with no answers to make clear when an end can come to unfathomable days where all we hear are whispers and their echoes of despair. Published 10/02/2020 ChicagoWrites.org |
The poet lights the light and fades away. But the light goes on and on.
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