Prose poem

March 2, 2015

There was a peaceful austerity to the whole ordeal. An unclassifiable part that just felt plain and unchangeable. A bit like if you took a piece of paper and left it in a grave for a thousand years. Sure, the paper would probably deteriorate and fade, but the grave would still be there--it would still be a grave for paper. Like graves are normally for things that change, but doesn't.

It was as if you took something very holy and grand and ceremonious and placed it in an empty dump. An empty, unchanged dump for paper and unwritten things. I don't know if the dump was created for paper or not, but it is for paper now. And all the holy parts of our time were gathered up and collected here, kept for posterity and little else. Maybe we need a little posterity sometime.

We walked and stood and listened and sat down and carried something heavy until we didn't anymore. It was all over and not, so briefly. I suspect it never left even when we were done. Our faces were still mourning the end of our time as if it was indeed our last.

I hope we cannot forget the rest of it, because I do not want to. The end is something we need to remember, even if it is not our end. Even if it is not the way we will all go, I hope that we remember the way it was for the rest. For those that did not get to hear our song. For those that did not live to see the austerity of their own funeral. For those that did not cry out and move and whimper, even at the end when the time was the toughest and the most unforgiving. For those that do not get to see their grave change.

I hope that they were left with something that they can remember—wherever they are, whatever they do. And I hope that we, who remain, can see and recognize and remember the truth about what caused us to remain and stand, where the rest fell.


I don't even know what this is about, really. I have my ideas, and I have my thoughts about it, but I'm not sure it makes any sense to anyone else--but that's sort of the point, right?

I know I actually kind of like it quite a bit. Not all my forays into more poetic language go this well (I think it went pretty well at least), and I feel there's something interesting here, but it's also quite dense and about several different things. I feel like I could almost split it up and turn each paragraph (stanza?) into its own little piece.