wake in the morning to
after effect
the sharp edge of consequence
that brings misadventure into startling focus
not quite death incarnate
but an after effect of its nearness
you dry heave with the sudden and present fear
and the knowledge it carries
i wrestle all night with tomorrow
a left handed struggle against the cold facts
that i cant foresee
a word twist can attest to my incapable process
as the knowledge sinks in
my poems grow shorter
as my life slips into the denser wood
the night overtakes me
fare thee well friends
haste not to the gallows
for it seeks each man in his turn
and gives no credit for words
***** or barren
gives no comfort nor wine
for the grieving
or the celebrating
just gives cease to the roads aspiring minstrel
and his forlorn tune of loss
after effect lingers with a taste of gunmetal
is copper tinge leaves impressions in the eye
that time cannot vacate
and love cannot appease
once again i come
the miles a man treads are the measure of his soul
i advance the thought that you see my own threadbare nature
reveal my own worn feet
and ask if i have not exceeded the pretense she lied
gone above the expected
i cannot move mountains
but i can move hearts and minds
a poet, a wordsmith, a pen jockey
a introspection in a lesser volume of words
i am a mover of hearts and minds
a poet
a wordsmith
a craftsman of phrase
batter up, strike three and im still at the plate...the pitcher slowly winds up his arm....will i get a strike four and five...will i run the bases and make home plate to the cheering crowds....silence answers me with its own quiet comfort of no answer at all