another new hip no dancing this christmas eve nor drinks with old friends until presents are unwrapped for their old hands have grown cold but they’ve left behind their love
soon you will be no more than particles of existence so easily filtered from memory oh those promises of dust to dust are quite exaggerated since dust leaves a remnant on the surface of life but like everyone before you you will become a fleeting pattern in morning’s light squeezed between the blinds as rays of yesterday mingled with thousands of lives transient patterns revealing lives long gone but are quickly concealed by the bright light of a new day
many people die as life victims outpatients in an unsympathetic void where the affairs of life are rewarded like a pet receiving a treat for good behavior whose mourners celebrate but who’s celebrated never joined the party
death
has no memory
so
victims
become
murders
killing in the same way
as
their own martyrs
were
slaughtered
and
for
the same reasons
oppression
to gain advantage
and
to rule others
someone
must
always
be underfoot
to
support
the weight
of
man’s madness
can your recall their names those people you called lifelong friends can you recall their face their voice the warmness of their touch oh it’s not a crime if you can’t but it’s a reminder you will be forgotten
december 2000 it was a rather strange part of a bike tour a mandatory viewing of uncle ho where we in a single file walked solemnly around his glass enclosed preserved body soldiers assured that there would be no photos or talking it seemed obvious that his true memorial was not within those walls but outside in the laugher of the school children who never had experienced war they had moved on from the past that day made me realize that we all frequently view the dead whether or not we want to admit to it it might be an old friend or a loved one or perhaps just a moment in time you know that special memory that we must view over and over again a viewing that keeps us bound to yesterday and unable to move on to the rest of life’s tour
one life to a book collections of short stories all first editions once a book has been removed just a few are remembered most are forgotten their spaces are soon refilled with newer copies dusty historical books the only remnants of souls
Read Between the Minds 