When I ponder
my petty thoughts
of being inside my skin
breathing in the ocean air
or the scent of a beautiful woman,
I begin to grasp what will be lost when I lose my life.
Just the simple freedom to breathe in life
in all its unpredictable forms.
The chance to muse about
and all my faulty notions about living.
Or to able to revel
in the fascination
of listening to my heart beat,
my body creak and breathe,
and my futile attempts
to capture my cascading thoughts in words.
That’s what makes
and all the holocausts before and since
so difficult to fathom.
All those spirits and souls,
whose mortal coils
were so cruelly tossed aside,
robbed of the beauty,
of experiencing more life.
The real cost is too much to truly comprehend.
Numbers fail us.
A magnitude of destroyed dreams.
My spirit is numbed
by the barrage of atrocities daily.
What is ultimately lost is my sense of loss.