A Poem from Someone who Looks Back and Sees Paths that Might have Existed

Let it be forgiven the physical violence made against you. I have forgiven you my Specter though you haven’t sought me. I supposed I might’ve cried when I read the Gospels; I did not know the pain I had been through by the man's corporeal that was much less than His. We live by comparisons but not a higher language exists that can carry my meaning higher— for after all I am no poet, and I did not know a branch on the vine is but a path that could have been taken that we’d not be together in the end but my plans of being are in the past. Burned into my mind, years after separation and stinging words, your Specter witnessed Winter’s delay in our small homes far away. Yearning for homeostasis while we nightmarishly share in macroscopic parallels. Unrequited, you and I, though among pseudo-friends who desire us who perceive you and them as Doppelgangers of what we were meant to be, and interiorly they want you to be coupled in the same way as we were for my surveillance cannot ascribe retribution, reprimand, or punish the understanding we sought and could not reach: what racism exists we have soaked up like a sponge though as ignorant zombies no Doctors exist for there to be a cure.