Every one is the superstar of his own reality, the hero of his own story.
Many men emerge as kings in some realm and declare according to their own understanding.
Women have been called Queens for ages.
The problem is that the Kingdoms most men can give them are not worth ruling.

The five fingers are not equal
Yet, one is not more relevant than the other
All five are needed to make a fist.

Well-tempered
As Bach's staccato joy takes hold
Of Book 1: Prelude No. 3
A clavier so mild, calm
Lagavulin-scented air
Peat moss, weather fair
The happy harpsichord
And the placid piano
Join in my glass
Mingling, giving the whisky
A nuance
Of elegance
Balancing the burn
Excellently

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
this old
decrepit barn
reminds me of a tale
my grandfather
once told

it took him
a life to tell it
but he told it well

this barn has
been here
as far back as I
care to remember
but there's a beautiful
story kept in that
old place—
the story
of a good
man's life

it is a marvelous story
it was a beautiful life

it was filled with
responsibility
compassion
generosity
kindness
charge
love

a­ll these things
and a lifetime
more

but
the closure
warms my heart
more than anything
and we all had our
part to play in
the end

we gathered
thirty-two-strong
around that tiny little bed
in that pitiful room all
smushed together
and recycling
each other's
unwanted air

it was our duty
and none of us wanted
to help him tie that final ribbon
but we soldiered on
for his sake

and we all witnessed
the fruits of his labor

as one voice went
a song to accompany
that ominous death rattle—
it was a joyous song of
worship and
praise to
God
for His
blessings
and yet a tune
eerily timed by the
awkward percussion
of a tired and dying man

so that song
went over and over

and i heard him whistle
lightly along with us
like he used to with
that same ol' hymn
on his heart—his
children and his
grandchildren

that song
went over again

and i saw him look at me
with that crooked grin
and he nodded
letting me know
everything was
"copacetic"

and that song
went over still

and i heard him
laugh over the pain
and over the tears
and over our
resounding
voices

that song
went over
as he whistled
and grinned
and laughed
one last time

but he couldn't

and his lips didn't smile
and his eyes didn't open
and his lungs struggled
to take in as much
as they could
of that stale
unwanted air

so he must've
only listened

it was then
i realized
his only
life goal was
to breathe in that
air de trop and to be
there in that cramped
box with one window
one cheaply made door
and one unfortunately
unfilled closet which
was wide open and
occupied by two
or three more
beautiful
voices
for the sake
of space

so we all soldiered on
for the sake of closure
and for his sake
and for our sake
and for my sake

and for the first time

i had fully grasped
the concept of the
family unit

in my mind
we were no longer
separate and connected
only by heritage

we are blood

what
courses
through
his veins
his legacy
his essence

for he taught me that on
some bright morning
when my life is over
i'll fly away to that home
on God's celestial shore..

for he taught us all to sing

I'll fly away! O Glory!
I'll fly away! When I die,
"Hallelujah" by and by!
I'll fly away!

and
that joyous song
was finally over then

and at that very moment
with one final thump on
that beautiful drum
and with one final
breath of that
coveted
stagnant air
in that modest
one-window room
we watched as
our voices
found
their
purpose

and they carried
him home with a song
for the sake of
his heart
as he left behind
this old decrepit barn
for the sake of
ours

I know the back of your
Hand like the back
Of my
Hand.

~