Occasionally I am guilty of a little poetry. This is one of those times….
I wreath the night in spectral latakia smoke
And bury the days.
Like nameless, forgotten children,
They lie in countless unmarked graves,
Entombed in unquiet slumber
Beside the words never spoken,
Kindnesses never given,
Thoughts never shared,
Where none mourn and none grieve
And only the shadows remember.
I wander the labyrinth of
Faceless statues and granite sepulchres
In the sunless graveyard of my memory
With no companion save the shades who stalk behind
Sighing, calling, beseeching,
“We lived, we lived, we lived.
Who will enshrine us? Who will remember us?”
And I reflect on the terrible briefness of all things.
I wreath the night in spectral latakia smoke.
The embers die, and all is dark.
– Stephen P. Smith