Beside His Daughter’s Grave

What difference would it make now
to open and unburden my heart here,
in the absence of witnesses? Who
would come to see the blood,
hear the wail, know the incomparable
ache of the lonely soul, bereft, left
to continue its journey alone? Why
would anyone care, their flight
unabated through their flying days,
about this small spot on the outskirts of
their alleged reality, nothing more than
a half-dream of what might, someday, be?

This solitude reaches out for
none of them, and they,
too glad and busy to be reached,
go about their business, as usual,
without a second thought for
this small piece of sad and silent
property that they, too,
must surely one day inhabit.


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