A year has passed
I am fat now
I have grown in knowledge but not in wisdom
I know better how to lie to myself and to lie still
A year had passed and nothing has changed
The world is worse but I am worse yet
A grandfather has died, two in fact; a building erected in one’s name; a small simple stone for the other
Are these my options for life and living, and dying? A stone or a pile of them?
What of a dead man still living? Is he better? What of his potential?
Yet nothing marks my name amongst these living dead
Perhaps I should die altogether sooner if these are the culmination! To the living I am not counted.
And if I die? Well I’ll have born some burden of proof—me and my small stone.