Like graffiti on the wall of a subway tunnel, like a hieroglyph on the wall of a cave, we each make our mark on the Wall of Life. “I was here!” we cry. Because we WANT it to matter. At the end of the Day, we want it to have mattered. But will it matter? …
There is no catching air with my fingers. There is no capturing a moment in time. Memories blur as I reach for them Eluding my grasp Evading my efforts to clutch them to my chest To brand them on my brain Dancing away Just like she did. And all my struggles to resuscitate to resurrect …