This poem was inspired by an interpersonal exchange this week.
When you think, feel and know that you lived, there’s a story of what happened but nothing to prove that it did.
Nothing of substance than can be touched to say for sure ‘yes’, but you know it was there, you know! ‘yeah’?
Solid evidence is absent, you won’t find it. Not a trace nor even a tiny fragment.
Where is your proof they ask, is your life contrived? Where can you find it? From where did it derive?
When you felt what you felt and still you remember, but all that exists is only sense and no ember.
When there are traces of memory felt in your body, was it ever really there? Is there a hard copy?
When you cannot utter words because there is no definitive truth. You know it was there! but where is the proof?
Memory is all just sense of a truth. Ever evading, no map, no road, no objectivity that’s aiding.
Such grief in the soul because what was there is now missing. Elusive in essence, like some sort of omission.
Did you ever exist? Is your life true? Only those whom were there are those that knew.
Nothing to corroborate senses and feeling, no solid host. Was it ever there? I feel like a ghost.
Nothing is real they say, without objective evidence, so what was there?
~ By Stacie Amelia