Echo in the Margin

The ink dried but never settled,  

truth smeared between the pages' weight.  

Nine hundred doors slammed in unison,  

each whispering a different answer.  

Lee Harvey Oswald's name folded in shadows,  

his silhouette stark against blame's spotlight.  

Did he hold history in steady hands,  

or did the wind reshuffle the leaves?  

A city mourned, a nation unraveled,  

grief turning corners, circling its own logic.  

In Dallas, roads still echo the motorcade’s hum,  

the grainy footage burns like a second sun.  

Answers heavy as monuments, paper-thin,  

a report sealing wounds that still bleed.  

Memory fractures but refuses to fade,  

inquiry closed yet forever ajar.  

Because truth cannot be footnoted completely,  

it slips through wide open cracks of doubt.  

And though archives sleep in steel-bound shelves,  

questions linger, their voices loudest at night.