i am a chronicler,

i remember

every war,

some say i feel little,

i feel it all;

every battle scar,

each false acquittal,

i am a raconteur

of the present, falling,

i hear the hushed screams

buried inside beams,

watchful until morning

seeing everything

and nothing

but nothing in-between,

 

i am a chronicler,

describing every colour

in the silence

though no one hears

the absence

in my axioms

and expressions,

i am a relator of unspoken fears,

i read what words

and face do not say,

story-weaver of the disappearing

and the unobserved

yesteryears and yesterdays,

whispers of nearing maybes

wonders stayed and strayed,

i sense what is, what could be

in filigrees of haze and clarity

until i’m forest fire,

until i’m frozen

or cannot differentiate our stories;

boundaries of emotions

sometimes hard to discern,

estranged to what is spoken,

i don’t see feelings take turn,

they churn behind eyes,

flit and flee, dappled light

between leaves, vapours

chasing by, gaseous sky,

everyone’s emotions layered,

shifting, clouds passing by,

vital, ever-changing

currents of cognizance

in and amongst us,

mind cataloging the shifting circumference

and significance

as sentiments deposit sediment

and their sands stretch wide and far,

and it feels i hear every footfall

until all i can hear is thunder

and still air

 

and i bend it to words

that only i can hear.

 

 

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch