September 11

A sixth circling of rubble and dreams, and for the first time, I have heard a whisper of contest. When can we move on? Five words send my sacrosanct heart stumbling in epiphany. Are we stricken with inertia, bound like Greek Gods to orbit a fiery luminescence of the past, one whose lightyears of tragedy reflect and refract through the small prisms of our minds, only finding the beat frequency one single day of the year? Who or what shackles us with rank tradition, rationalizes those waxy burns on our fingers, allows us to entertain this Medusa? For if we do not know why we do it, then that Gorgon head revels in our paraplegic pleading, our impotent prayer, fuel-less and futile. Verbalize it. Because of someone you knew, a symbol you love, a security you lost? Because of anger? Sorrow? Vengeance? Because it is simply right? For justice? In remembrance and honor? Tell me. Because if we've lost cause, then it is time to come back inside, put piety on the hat stand, hang the cloak of duty for another day's resolve because I hate to admit it, but you will tap that well again and it best not be siphoned for an empty gourd. But if you carry a shell harboring reason, carry on. No whisper is unheard.