in the diary of Anne Frank read,
But I keep trying to become
what I would like to be, and what I could be
if... if only there are no other people
in the world.
I wonder why, Anne. Why keep a diary?
Why write at all--
Why keep arranging words like
stones too heavy for one hand?
What can a soul locked up, have to say?
But then again, she said a great deal.
She loved a great deal-- the moon
through the dirty window, the country
called Holland, all people, a childish boy
named Peter-- another rock.
But we'll never know.
There are no more words in her diary,
these are the last. Here's what I think,
I really do-- if Anne had the chance
to write one more day, she would
have revealed her Friday
Torn from her small cell, in the face
of losing everything-- I see her walk,
head held high. I like to believe,
she gained the one thing she wanted most,
and in doing so, lost the invisible
chains bound by her own hand---
Yes, outwardly captured, moved--
to a deeper prison. But I think
nothing could hold her by then
For she'd grown wings--
wings made of long strips
of words. Each word made of
letters, each letter, of strokes.
Each stroke lifting her