I rap my knuckles upon a closed door.
I hear a voice that seems like broken glass upon barefoot.
I drive pass a white horse with no rider.
‘Does it ever end?’ my one and long time friend.
She speaks in a whisper…
‘I am beginning to wonder that myself.’
Skin raw and filled with excess debris.
Fingers bent and calloused.
As one, I ask,
‘do you see me?’
So this is where we lay.
Open to the chaos of black new days.
I could grow older but then maybe not.
I asked, my long time friend…
‘does this ever end?’
The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross
When playing possum with tragedy…a ghost of many tales entangles me.
No use…crying for mercy in this…the pouring rain.
And, yet, I stand in the elements crying…just the same.
The shadows of belated misery…
Always five feet ahead.
Ice droplets slap and cajole.
Promising…’you will sleep incomplete…sell us your soul.’
Complacency curls beneath a broken heart.
Abandoning me of all control.
Death patted the worn leather couch.
Placed in frigid temperatures…the seat seemed to come from 1970…or there about.
He did not offer a love song.
Though in his icy stare…
it had been apparent to see the End wished for me to stay.
His movement so flawed, so free, like a cold sweat on a summer’s day.
If I could only pass Death by…
There would be no need to ask why.
Positioned knee to knee…
‘should I stay or should I go.’
With a chance glance to smoke from a January sky…
I turned back and Death had gone.
Leaving me with only lyrics to a love song.
She had no oxygen…so I brought the metal devil to her.
Just a tourniquet for a blistered soul.
She never fared well, hot.
She never fared well, cold.
Quiet were her ways.
A tsunami were the words…she did not say.
One sinner could cling to her devotion.
Just as I, began to sink slowly in her god-fearing lifeboat.
Out and out, by myself, in a turbulent ocean.
Every Sunday metal tank set at ease.
No longer was she…to kneel before the hosanna.
Wheeled, forefront and center, beside other elders…
strands of rosaries, strung together like christmas lights.
A hymn all their own.
One Sunday with all the prayers of faith and health.
One Sunday…when the oxygen ran out.