He walks out of the battle pen dripping with ink
knowing for certain he was placed in that moment in time
to put words to these things
these stories that shift the atmosphere
bump into each other
causing friction and storm
He foretold this in way no one will believe
He’s there when widows weep p
taking their tears and daring to name each one
when another child is found, and another one lost
when the tales that are told are far from happy endings
he reminds us, ultimately, there will be one
He is alone, with the voices of ages
defining, connecting, sharing
coloring the short eighty years again and again
generations come and go
yet we know in these hues our time here has meaning
those who are born to join him know the loneliness
of their own minds
the weight of The Story pressing down
the terror of feeling the shredding of a thousand hearts
but they also know the togetherness of knowing
they are part of the billions before and after them
they know the words that were spoken
are the end and the beginning
they weep together and find hope in everything
It’s a brave thing, to dare to put words to these things
