Withered

The words have worn off the cross
by the roadside.
The flowers, withered,
have blown away.
The pictures faded, cracked.
Even the graffiti on the nearby overpass
is barely legible.

So much time has passed
since the event.
There is no organic evidence left
of what had once occurred here
where no exit can be found.

Still, far from the location
there remain cracked voices
that speak to the memory
of the tragedy.
Far from the scene,
somewhere,
is the legacy of a good boy
and a sad day
and an avoidable error.

Rest in peace, Jose.
You are missed.

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