Echoes of Baltimore
A walk around a city's ugliest leftovers serve as reminders that even the smallest lessons are just as important to learn.
Every hollow rowhouse—
burnt, charred, and forgotten
with no core to stem from—
an anthology of a stranger's soul
that's been carved out
of a history unreachable
beyond your own pages.
The wind that grazes even
a singular hair on your neck
but not enough to stand up
straight is a call to fancy
and wonder from someone
long gone but not left behind.
The mark made is strong enough
to feed the ravenous fire that arises
in your chest from the spark that snaps
into you when you've stopped looking for it.
A mark's call that's felt first and heard
second like a lightning strike
smiting the smallest tree
on the tallest hill.
The words sashay
into senses like a cat
tracking a mouse by scent.
Finally, after moonlighting between
the mind and heart,
the call beckons:
Before you is my yesterday
presently today and so shall it always
be when this day has been
laid to rest alongside me.
I challenge you to do better,
not to best me,
but to live a life
that Death will be proud
to have earned.