A Moment (Near The End)
Old pictures on older walls gather dust
in the houses of the dying.
Pots and pans of cherished existence
linger in cabinets with rusty finishes.
The darkness in wood’s grain that frames
our narrow doors of perception;
the stains of times ticking persistence
do not penetrate these glistening visages.
____ The green leaves hang so still there,
_____- my they have patience.
Watching the spinning blades
on life flight helicopters, past
spinning hour and minute hands
pacing between rhythms of an EKG.
Look up from the magazine and the scene
is so frightening
twisted hands in turning machines,
cradled in calm waves of electricity.
All of our ladders of insignificance
Masked in gauze under pale
halogen light, a figure of the future;
infantile and awry.
In worn skin yellow hues turn
to deeper purples and blues.
The blackness of deaths trail
flowers inside of bruises.
____They pass, they are passing, this is going to be me
____this is all this is us this is you this is me
Late calls and dim lit parking lots,
automatic doors and balloons,
magazines and candy,
____habitual subliminal urge:
____consume, consume, consume.
Old objects in older spaces gather dust
in empty, unfamiliar, yet
well known places;
in waking dreams still,
dancing in fading eyes,
tracing loving faces.
Saying good by old friends
while shaking life's passing hands
_____maybe somehow, I will see you again
_____we will be created in this sweet earth again
____maybe this time I will listen
__to each note of a beautiful song that much longer
__I will be more alive, and in love, and even stronger