Would if your past was lost,
would it be a desert; barren
hot and void, but cold at night;
would it be painful regret for
a life no longer recorded or
would it still be the life you
knew to be true?

If if was all gone; all that you
recorded of what you felt;
would you still know to treat
a bearded man on a chopper
the same as a clean shaven
man in an expensive suit?

It’s who we are that matters;
I can’t pretend I’m not one
of you; it’s only how I relate
and what I’ve learned is not
about art, but instead, it was
life itself

What I could say is only in a
way that reminds you; it’s a
way to break the silence if
only for a moment; what I
lost is how I said it but not
how I meant it

There is no story of running
underneath planes as they
departed; there is no story
of swimming beneath a
churning prop; it is only the
life that someone lost that
we endure because we know
who is next

Is there no callousness that
can be welcomed for those
who must live with death
and violence; what we spoke
or painted is for those who
try to live the right way while
we watch those who must
die in a world which we
cannot comprehend