A poem that was a product of contemplation on the looming tragedy in Paris, on how everyone seems bent upon teaching everyone else how to grieve ‘properly,’ and a repeated listening of John Lennon’s “Imagine.” But it didn’t really make me feel all that better.
Don’t tell me how to grieve.
Don’t tell her how to cry.
Don’t tell her that she must
And don’t tell me it’s the same everywhere.
For she looks at the spot on the ground where her legs should have been
Charred flesh is all there is.
Don’t tell her that I understand.
Because here miles away, as I stand
Still grieving, I do not understand how that spot is empty.
Don’t tell us that we should stop dreaming.
Dreamers always have, and dreamers always will dream
I will dream of her with her dancing shoes on
And she will dream of cutting the right vein this time.
I will wish for a better tomorrow
She’ll know that there’s none
Yes, you may say that I’m a dreamer
And this time, I am the only one.
