#unpublishedworks

For every Helmet for my Pillow–

How many memoirs go unpublished?

Their poems left unrecited.

The words long written down

never to be bound by our cultural consciousness;

left to rot–       in their pockets,

slowly washed away with crimson blood

or blown to shreds from falling rockets.

Their silent echoes hushed by the battlefield;

the shadows of their memories

never illuminated nor revealed.

The writings of the dead;

I stand amid the crowd, in a boldly black shroud, neither pitiful nor proud, just a person, among the crowd.

Among the crowd, with noises loud, I find myself displace, as I search for a familiar face.

I'm not worried about losing this race, I'm just scared of becoming one of those images, "the lost ones, you know," the ones that come quietly and quickly go.