The Lincoln Letter

- The Seasons Of Grief: Chapter III - Poem XI -

Dear Reader,

This letter waits in the shadows, sealed with thoughts unsent,

A quiet oath, not for your hands, but for my lament

Heed my words, for life is not for the easily ensnared,

The true meaning is within the cracks of light, which few choose to brave the journey, so they dare

Maps are distractions, just run and forget where you’ve been,

Burn the bridges and the burdens, the past that you once lived in

For when you don’t recognize the face in the shattered glass,

It means you’ve broken free, free from the weight of your chains that didn’t last

Never trust the words of those crumbling apart,

Their age is faulty, their wisdom, a dark art

So, bend where you must and snap when the time calls,

You owe nobody answers to questions that make you feel small

Keep your secrets, love, and charms sacred from the luxuries you’ve earned,

When you meet evil, strike true, or you’ll be burned

I, too, still pace this hollow house, a home for no one but me,

The silence wraps like ivy, it’ll grow for all eternity

All my friends found their anchors, their guiding lights, sincere,

I drift through the nights, a phantom with a pen, unclear

My first drink in hand, Moscato spills over my prayers to a cursed land,

A solitary vigil, a truth-teller with no aim or plan

You wouldn’t believe me if I told you the oath I’ve walked,

Of the empty echoes of these halls, where I have talked

Life and love are a game, no applause for the quiet loss,

No one sees the battles I’ve won when there’s no bridge to cross

Find another, brighter star, someone smarter than I,

My light’s burned too hard, now a flare, a tear in the sky

I shine so brightly, in defiance and spite,

Even as I write this letter, I pray to God you’ll see the light

Take this lesson: let no one claim your worth or set your pace,

The only justice you owe is to confront a traitor face to face

And should you find yourself alone, remember this truth:

Your strength lies not in others, but in your resolve of you

The Lincoln Letter waits unsent, a manuscript to the war,

Between the man I was, and the boy who craves so much more

Perhaps this is enough, to write and let the ink stand still,

For this letter may not change the world, but God knows I will 

Sincerely, Me