A Candle, A Whispered Prayer

The mail comes late.

Damn, it always does.

I risk wet slippers yet plod,

Drip, drip drip up the cracked pavement

Been that way since my father died.

Oh that was back in ’94, old heart

Just couldn’t last the Clintons. 

Happens to everyone at some point, I figure,

Maybe to me sometime soon.

I light up a Spirit, hey, it’s not illegal yet.

And look at the pooling leftovers

Of what yesterday said was pristine.

 

Maybe later I’ll grill some steaks.

It’d be the first of the year.

Cold, miserable puking and mewling weather,

The kind I’d tell some freshman to quit

Bitching about. But that was then.

This frozen expanse. Is this then to be a life?

Open, severe. A sore that ceases never to bleed.

No.

 

I shall find a new path,

I shall find a new road,

This one is not yet dead,

Not yet departed from the red that pumps the heart,

The song that stirs the morning’s breath.

I, and I alone,

Am here to deliver a last breath,

Am victorious in defeat,

To see, to dream for one last time,

This I leave the world, 

And this my posterity.

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~ by Benji on 12 March 2014.

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