Aug 16, 2018
I envy the fool he was, that dark-eyed boy of twenty. Not knowing or needing to know anything, not feeling or needing to feel. That passive, contemplative boy whose name was my own, whose body and voice were my own. How many spoke his name when he was unaware, how many went to hold him when he simply wasn't there? I think he's gone now to be with the others; in a line with the others, his back against the old wainscotting of that darkened inner hallway. If I travel there, it is in the corner of my mind where serpents crawl and faintly announce themselves. Where boys like him and I stand silently and patiently await the calling bell - the final, oscillating tone before the great departure. I tell you, our souls are foolish, unread poetry.
