Of Diaries, Of Trails

The trail of freedom is littered

With the tattered diaries of

The soft folk

The true folk

The loud folk

The small folk

Of lives passed

Reliving their trauma in their pages

Relating to it in our bones.

While these diaries line this trail

Like golden bricks covered in blood

They stop.

Where these books of scrapped words and scribbled out dreams lay

The abrupt stop of them is breathtaking.

The trail to Freedom does not end here, no

But everyone has stopped

Looking at the binds of books like as if it were a neverending cliff.

Footsteps of people who have stepped forward

Have been covered by

Time and dust

Behind the invisible line

Fighting has broken out

People steal pages from the diaries and claim their

Sacred

Ancient

Words

As their own

People steal the pages from the diaries and use those

Sacred

Ancient

Words

To damn the dead instead of killin’ those who need killin’.

The trail to freedom

Has more pages to put down

NEEDS more pages to put down.

And yet we are here.

Stuck

In this unfinished diary

On this unfinished trail.

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