Archive
11/15/08 - (2)
The Pattern
This disconsolate night, I'm fading back into the pattern of my shadow's anonymity, Withdrawing into its dreary crevasse — A rift crowded with human ash — Disappearing into the death of my very presence.
The freefalling feeling of being totally alone, So alone that I don't even recognize my voice, my shape, Is a sensation I've not known, for seven decades. It's dreadful when solitude hovers over you, Like a buzzard circling on a spectral thermal,
And you can see that you've already gone over the edge, Succumbed to time's talons, beak, Been sucked earthward, crashed into a ravine, That ineradicable gash history has named Babi Yar, In which your nameless shadow hasn't even a past.
11/15/08 - (2)
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