Witnessed Up Close

I lived as the boy tucked inside the wall,

watching the bright world from the inside out.

A solitary witness through winter, spring, summer, and fall,

holding no grievances, finding nothing to shout.

I walked through the decades and carried my part,

sitting in pews and the warmth of a crowd.

Yet a quiet remains in the core of my heart—

a hunger to speak, to be known, to be loud.

For when we stand near the edge of the knife,

and time draws its border across who we are,

the solitary soul asks the meaning of life:

to be witnessed up close, and not viewed from afar.

As the shadows grow long and the daylight recedes,

and I face the quiet shape of my own history,

I ask the dark room what a lifetime concedes—

when the door closes soft, will anyone remember me?