The End
Through half open eyes can be seen
The night drawing close.
The birds have stopped their chatter.
Tired thoughts are crawling across
The ground to a barely opened door.
My nose can taste the fear,
Of a body that keeps pushing
Towards its own end.
Every remembered tale has been told
Over the months of my rotting corpse.
Is this the final tale that I will tell.
Or will I face the end again tomorrow?
Southern Tales
So here I am uncles,
Turning life into words
While you sell dreams by the slave
And Southern fried owl becomes the new taste.
Sand Dunes and Salty Air
The old landie is playing rough and tumble
With the dunes.
As we play safe inside,
Dancing their tune.
They pull, we speed, we’re free.
Another game they call
To the fun in our brains and in our veins.
But they’re too quick, too light, too bright.
They turn around, their arms locks ours.
And we’re down.
They laugh.
The sand is quick.
Sinking hearts and sinking fast.
If she goes, we’ll lose
Everything.
Rope and anchor and Capstan winch.
Screw boy screw. Screw it in.
As I watch the car goes down.
But the anchor’s now in solid ground.
Is this how we should be when depression strikes?
To always carry our own anchor?
For the ground that all things pass?
Or the ground of love and self-acceptance?
You haven’t heard the last from us, the sand dunes call.
I’m sure we haven’t.
