The light passes
down through
Generations, loved ones
Living in the right places
They may have been giants
Yet the light passes
Through Grand Central station,
Across the fire in the sky
In the nation
The dappled dust light halos
Around their faces
A printed form
Of some radiation
A quiet wave of exultation,
When the light passes
Through the station
Through your breast
And its breath
Not gone, no more
Cessation,
Here in the mirrored light
In Grand Central Station
They may have been giants
And we are still sitting
At attention , passing the
Still breath of street lamps
We are afraid of their intention
Tired gents became monuments
and left Apocalyptic arrogance
Generations are their places
Inside their pockets they assumed
The light won’t catch what passes
Like ash and lint, the glint
Over and over it the light passes
We will go through and get past it.
If giant treads made marks
The light will make us see it
Through burning light so blinding
Yet they live in sad museums
Grandmothers, fathers, friends and mothers
Took the train pass
To the next celebration
And one day
They will meet us at the station.
Empathy is Poetry 