Angry tears rain upon abandon houses.
It is here comfort feels at home…most.
Ghastly stairwells replace stubbed toes.
Eerie bulkheads surrounded with infected weeds replaced by the belt and the knee.
Heroic crosses dressed in blood replaced by screams louder than nothingness.
What is not replaced…
The uneven sunrises and the awkward sunsets.
Cannot you see,
‘they are fractured just like me.’
Fragments and figments of is left…
these are the buildings…
these are the visions…
that understand me best.
“If winter calls should I answer?” mother had asked.
Her words such as peeled back bark.
Earthy and sublime, a slow pouring wine.
The volume of her sentences were never said…in moderation.
It is four in the morning and I am awoken to hanging on.
What ground had just been broken?
How many more sleepless black and white moments, sullen and justified, would this go on?
Ashen, Irish, ashes all that was left in the morning.
When memories woke up.
“Hey, mama, it’s me!”
Said, “you better wait child!
Said, “you’ve been a long time running!”
“Hey, mama, answer me!”
“Baby boy, you better sit down…Can’t listen when the sun’s out! My only son this will be so hard to hear.”
“C’mon mama, what do you mean?”
I know you’ve been knocked down.
I know it ain’t been easy.
Nothing ever good really is.
Why you gotta wait so long?
But she said son,
“Let me reason with you. You think you carry such a weight?
I know I never beat you boy. Better start acting like this here’s…a race.”
“You ain’t gone far enough to say, at least I tried.
You ain’t worked hard enough to say, well I’ve done mine.
You ain’t run far enough to say, my legs have failed.
You ain’t worked hard enough. You ain’t run far enough to say…’it ain’t gonna get any better.”
“You picked a bad time
You picked a bad time to listen to me!”
What had been wrong with me?
Granite stone with names from different turns.
Could he have been just a tabloid mystery?
So many questions…under a rustic line of pine trees.
Roads winding in and around crevices amassed from weather, oh so turbulent.
Had the journey into deep, gathering country been wrong.
Could he have been just a teacher…giving lessons in distaste.
Offering long, forbidding ways in which love can go to waste.
Year upon rural year…the distance fought never remains.
Climate change offered no manner in which to stay the same.
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.