The old man asked if air weighed more than gold,
if truth held sway over deceit, the last time I knew who I was,
recognized myself for me, not as a tool of greed,
but who I am; my truth, my love, my hope, my laughter.
I considered my obligations as a warrior,
a father, a brother, a son and a man… judge, jury
and executioner… Lift my spirit in laughter and love,
bring me to my knees beneath heaven’s beam;
I’m weighing my answers like a ******,
one eye upon the scope, the other, my motive.
Man and mankind, far from home, carrying out plans,
half duty, half flesh, standing bone-deep to my waist,
the exactness of a worship I cannot recognize as good.
In the bony sand, the original cradle embracing me,
kissing my eyes with wet lips, my ears with truth,
my body, with the throbbing of a most private flesh;
a forlorn inhalation stains my finest hour.
The old man extends his arms for me to enter...
or shatter. The choice is mine.
© 2010 by mark prime