More days pass
and I notice
my beard
is going white
and my eyes
are a tired blue
and the world around me
is bloated with rust and rot
and terminal indigestion;
and even though I am not
a man of faith I understand
why it is that rape victims
and drunks and junkies
hope for a higher power –
because if there’s nothing
then we’re all fucked
and there’s nothing to do
but wait for that moment
when our heads empty
and our fractured souls drain
and that silence found only
between the notes of a symphony
or in a hospital room when an old woman dies
falls upon us
and we can relax
and leave the interpretations
to others.
[This is the last poem of my semi-random Poem a Day to Celebrate Poetry Month event. It's been nice to just focus on poetry again; and even though some of the results turned out better than others, I still feel like poetry is, for me, The First Form. It's the one I've been doing the longest and the one I am the most comfortable in. Poetry, unlike any other form, can do so much with so little.]
