A poem inspired by a quote because I lack originality.
I wasn't at the funeral,
But I still mourn the death twelve years
After the tragedy.
Not all of us know of the absence.
Not all of us appreciated the presence.
A present
To life:
Originality.
Those filled with
Sporadic beauty can feel
The vacant room across the hall
From his or her heart.
We are only the grievers,
A new age: unlabeled
And not quite anything.
Post-originality sounds demeaning,
It just sounds sad.
The struggle we were meant
To live has changed. A war for
Creation. A war against
Recreation. The difference is
The war. The difference is in
The casualties: so many minds killed
and spoiled; vision loses the remedy when
Used twice to heal. So we step
Carefully over barbed wire
To survive (can't stand with cuts on
Your feet). Some gain
History, unearned and injured. Some become
Silhouettes or broken ovens or burnt
Words, unearned and golden and buried
In painted mountains.
We all feel the trill on the anniversary of
The passing. A murder, brutal and
still, disquieting for the Unquiet.
And we gather here together
And we keep our heads down and we keep our thoughts in.
Everyday is the anniversary because no one knows
Whowhatwhenwhyhow it was killed.
No one has seen the gravestone,
And everyone knows
What the inscription says:
"Originality is dead" *
*A quote by Kale Lasn
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