Poetry

The kings of our past

Your footprints are swamped by his

no matter how old you get, how tall you grow or how wise.

Because the ghosts will always contort the mirror

so you appear small, a mere cub

hiding in his father’s shadow.

Poetry

Things that stay

How do we rate our encounters?

What if we were given a stamp for each positive one,

a scar for each negative,

a freckle for those of no consequence?

 

Could we read each other’s lives that way?

Noting all the joy,

regarding all the hardships.

 

Would people want to be displayed like that?

Raw.

Open for discussion, ridicule,

pity, doubt

 

also

 

compassion,

love, trust

and empathy.

 

In a world where everyone wants to hide

while simultaneously

glued to social media

 

sometimes

 

noticing details of another

can build the strongest bonds.