Stuck, everlasting, in a cyclical stalemate between the once intertwined — one of blacks and whites, lime and bronze, tangible and not — I still remain. A gray speck dotting the annals of history, relayed and rewritten, time and again. Forgotten and soon to be remembered, only to be lost once more.
There is still a story I must relay to an audience, even now. A final crescendo I fear will fall on deaf ears, but that the conspiring orchestra dares to play despite the risk.
I made a promise a long time ago.
I’d like to think I can still deliver on it.