For All Those Who, Like Me, Never Made It To The Bridge
by Yvette A. Schnoeker-Shorb


We are still insignificant,
unlike those who made headlines
by extending the sentence
of their lives
to end in jump-stop exclamation--
point being that they were
finally defined by their acts
as signs that indifference
can leave such mortal wounds,
fragile red strands dripping,
days clotted and dried
before night opens them anew.

Death dreams some people--
a woman like me, for instance,
but I am not real, not really;
significance in this world
is for others. All my efforts reap
grimly, for I am a mimic
of those who count
beyond my measure.

But of the souls who don't,
the ones who jump,
at least they have a say
in that slow-motion moment
when they exchange their lives
for meaning, for presence.
I will never be remembered
in this way, but remain
unidentified
as another one feeling desperate
in the quietness of mere existence.






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