The Glow Pt. 3

In the ghetto, a wall might mean anything
But don’t ask me
Because I am not of the ghetto
Even if, by chance, my bloodline
Still exists beneath its rubble

They documented my suffering, though I cannot claim it as my own
Kept it away until the final moments when the barren landscape could be used
For the parades of charlatans
Not of murderers
For it is their pride that keeps the bloodstains moist

If not Diaspora, then I am finished
My story evaporates like the fumes
Exhumed like the ashes you’ve read about
Over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again
You sat at your desk, avoiding the glow
Wondering whether you could ever become such a cruel thing
You are cruel enough, you said aloud
I heard it and wouldn’t stop listening

You sat and thought about the boy you loved
And the girl you tortured
And, try as you might, those memories would just not greet each other warmly
Would not meet across the hallway for a handshake or the embrace
Or fall in love carelessly, painlessly
Because bloodlines are now cut wide open, veins and all

And as the ashes rise again
With the whirlwind wind,
You might recall your blood
And the wall it still stains
At least until you turn out your light.