The gathered living stood
Somber and unspeaking
Stoop shouldered
And draped in black
As he who stood so tall
Was horizontally installed
Into his final
Place of rest.
A voice to be heard again
Only in memory
And on random recordings
Now gathering dust
In the unopened
And overstuffed drawers
Of his now vacant home.
Everyone may be equal
In a mindset sense,
But everyone is not
Equally someone.
Who will fill the gap?
What voice will rise
To challenge wrong?
What body will now
Place itself on the tracks
Of the oncoming train
Of neglect, abuse, greed
And social
Irresponsibility?
What person will write
The next necessary
Preamble
To a document declaring
Freedom and liberty?
To become that
Which we admire
Is the goal
Of the righteous.
To wait for someone else
To step up
And do what needs
To be done
Is the choice
Of those immobilized by fear
And outright cowards.
Standing in the cold drizzle
Of a winter morning
In an ever growing
Field of inscribed stones,
Each one
Secretly
And silently
Wonders who
And which they are.