what of all the missing
and missed moments
the magnitude
the magnificence
even the mediocrity
of all the memories
lost to time
who would feel compelled
to catalog them all
who would be willing
to try to remember
to recount every thought
that each human being
had considered in each lifetime
would it even be possible
is there enough
random access memory
for billions of sighs and whispers
dreams and schemes
secrets, songs and sonnets
so much lost to the silent history
that death and indifference leave
the ramblings and ravings
longing and yearning
what of the millions
who waited for an invitation
a subpoena that did not came
never asked to bear witness
to their own lives
what they had seen
and said
what was important
what drew their tears
their laughter
will no one be able to tell their story
will nothing chronicle that they ever lived
would anyone know what lies beneath
the ragged wooden cross, the crumbling cairn of stones
how much could be chiseled
onto a headstone
words that so few would ever read
cemeteries holding so much cold hard truth
what of our failure to offer even a penny for their thoughts
Barry DeCarli
January 18, 2019
Revised on January 20, 2019
On South Street
©Barry DeCarli
