Past tense has enveloped
the dream and memory can no longer
It cannot be seen.
In the center of the public eye I have watched
the youth play its guilty part in the unfolding
of the world’s drama. I have wept for its antics.
I have dragged my expectations across the cracks
and splinters of a bombarded, fraught optimism,
verging on the echo of an ageless battle, a page
burned a thousand times, its ashes billowing
across the world, sowing their seeds and
growing anew, setting life on fire eon after eon and
parent after child, reaching tirelessly toward sky,
future, deliverance, generation.
I have seen the end of time.
I have navigated deliverance,
the pen busy,
fire on the page,
palimpsest of mind and memory,
inscribing will’s course on combustible platforms.
I have engaged with the power of the chronicle.
It was intended to survive the tests of time,
endure and contribute to the pilots’ education,
recorded for posterity and reference,
left behind for the curious and inquisitive,
a sign, writing on the pulp wall,
a whisper on the digital platform.
It was mentioned in the books that were burned,
in the files that were corrupted, all hope lost
in the great fires, when walls and firewalls collapsed like bonfires,
but some of the knowledge was salvaged,
saved, books and writings were retrieved from the ashes,
their contents handed down by word of mouth, from ear to ear,
from generation to generation and student to sage,
from forgiveness to rage and back to forgiveness,
and back to rage, ad infinitum,
offering insight to those eager to discover what was
to transpire according to the lore of future past.