It wouldn’t have ended that way
Eric,
If you’d have had my fortune,
Had my characters in your head in 1949.
I shut the book. Heavy.
And my thoughts turn to you,
Bearing the load of their story,
Ink-tear committing them, it.
Stomach pit of lead
Writing that you had to do.
Heavy. I sat a while,
I’ll be honest: true.
They let me down,
I can’t imagine what they did to you.
We’re still here, writers writing
Ink-tear word by word
Tapping out their stories
Words like their footprints
Making marks on the paper snow
Tracking their tales-
Wherever they go.
If you’d have had my characters,
1984 –
It wouldn’t have ended that way.
I just wanted you to know.
They wouldn’t have been able to betray.
It’s 2022, Eric.
And words are still striving,
resonating their simple truth.
Words are hanging on – just
Sword of Damacles
A trigger away from severing
We’re not facing fire.
Yet.
While there’s air in my lungs
Footprints printed pure in paper snow,
2 +2 will always be 4.