Of History

I saw someone had died. I must pass this place every week and words keep coming out. Sometimes like this. I don't quite know what I'm trying to say.

I am the body in the shadow of the wall.

You are the flower growing from the mortar.

I am the soot of past fires.

You are the doorway;

You are six hundred years.

I am crushed between cobbles,

I am the rat,

The blood red spillage.

The glass

The shattered glass.

You are the patience of a garden.

I am the beating.

The life lost.

The lost life.

You are the shadow upon it,

The grass beneath it

The bones of the city around it.

I am yellow seeping from pitch-blackened cracking skin of futile warriors.

A yellow shred of plastic tape.

You are the peace.

You are the place.

You are of history.