Teveel jaren

in het verleden

zijn getuige van een te lang zwijgen, toedekken, ontkennen, niet verwerkt krijgen.

Maar de kansen keren.

Jaar na jaar

en zelfs in een stroom versnellende tempo

wordt het drukkend geheim in cijfers

gegoten,

namen genoemd

daders aangeduid

dossiers afgehandeld

eindelijk

en toch

is de pijn

nooit helemaal weg

Rik Devillé

I knew Stan and Jack but
But their lives were not
Filled in. They were half dug.

It's not right.

We are made to dig

And then fill in the hole

Complete  to finish the chore.

That's how we come to know

Who we are. It's about emptying

And filling. Kenosi. Pleroma.

Via Negativa. And Via Positiva

And I'm not sure but they both

Got screwed when it came to emptying

Holes deeper than any body ever needed.

Bodies filled with scars, holes and tattoos

Of grief. Hard hues and dues. Pain's paint chips.

I miss them. And you know what scares me?

I'm still digging too and feeling closer to them both.

There's this hole deeper than I'll need.

And I'm tired of dirt in my shoes and neath my nails.

You know, it's hard to see God

From the ignorant end of a slit trench

Or a grave.

Yea, perhaps no saints in foxholes

But, then again, don't look for atheists

In sickbeds either

Father, forgive us, for our words are black and
 blue.

Father, forgive me, for a life in search of you.

Bro. Didacus R. Wilson, T.O.R.

for S.G. and J.R. --- dead from Crohn's

© copyright All Rights Reserved Wilson, Richard S.