The Poetry Marathon

There was a boy
A very strange
Imaginative boy
Who carried worlds
Inside his mind
Of places that he
Traveled and of
Places he did not

He crafted stories
Of people in his path
And oh how often
Did he make us laugh
The way he put
The words together

I missed him so
When he was far
Now I do even more
For he is gone
Before his time
The memories of him
Sad as it is
Are all that’s left behind

I want to believe
that there’s a place
where when we leave
we’ll see a face
of someone else
who we hold dear
that was there first,
maybe last year.

I need some faith
(we can’t be sure)
that in that place
there’s joys galore.
When I get there
I hope I’ll see
all those who were
so dear to me.

They say we’re born,
We walk through life,
And then we die – alone.

Yet I am here,
Not on my own,
But always followed.

Always accompanied
By a name I did not choose,
By a shadow that does not
Portray me well,
A reflection that never
Feels true to heart.

And when those things
Feel too untrue
I have my words
For shield and comfort.

Heat fills the room,
Almost visibly,
Passing through every item
On its way. Changing
Their core being,
Inducing lethargy.

The open window
Is not sufficient
In this strange city,
Making one long for
Treelines in the distance
Instead of vehicles
That keep zoming past.

We honour those
Who spent their time
On us, on our dreams,
Our passions, our goals.

We let them know
In words, in verse,
In quiet admiration
The impact that they had
On us. On everything.

We try to show that
We will remember.
We will be more
Than simply people
Standing on their desks.

The season of departures
Was not predicted
Nor announced
On lit up boards
Or sheets of paper.

It came uncalled for,
Uninvited, undesired.
And soon it was
So hard to breathe
Through the ashes of memory.

No buzzing.
No vibration, no noise, no melody.
A pleasant stillness.

A little ball of fur,
Curled up by my side,
Soft and peaceful.

The smell of rain, perhaps.
Mingling with the smell
Of deep dark coffee.

A chill in the air.
The smoothness of a pen
In my hand.

Transference of thoughts
Through the ink
Onto paper.

There isn’t always
a tunnel
for light to come through.

At times it shines
above you
through the trees.

We are so focused
on what’s ahead
forgetting
to look up.

If I were to write to you,
It would be as if all
The unspoken words
Gathering onto paper
To never be sent by
Mail, conventional or otherwise.
For you are out of reach
Of objects, and limited to
Thoughts and dreams
And memories.

The voices once quiet,
The ones unheard, ignored,
Even silenced at times.
They get louder. They echo
In chambers we built
To contain them.

But the cycle never ends.

The voices get louder.
The faces get seen.
No longer veiled by
The darkness we impose.

They speak of such horrors
We cover our ears.
We cover our eyes.
Their reality is not ours.

And the cycle never ends.

We take their words and
Attempt to change them.
We hide behind the ways
They chose to say them.
We draw the line between
What’s real for them and us.

So the cycle never ends.