It’s far too early for my requiem to play.
I haven’t finished wandering the maze.
But in the mail, a bill arrived today—
For every pint of blood from all my days.
It’s far too early to be bowing in the dark,
The smoldering ember’s light has yet to die.
And like a snapped guitar neck, stiff and stark,
It croaks: "You’re no saint, brother—that’s no lie."
I do not want to look too far ahead,
Though time is snapping closely at my heels.
My life’s a whirlpool, where the soul is fed,
But something’s always missing, so it feels.
I play with her, and she plays back with me,
Blindfolded, facing down the firing squad.
She breathes upon my neck, a howling plea,
To sort my flesh and spirit before God.
A poet’s mind is often out of gear,
Like jesters, we are all a similar breed.
And so I live, and leave a trail right here—
The bloody tracks of verses as I bleed.
Born in the throes of agony and moon,
They’ll travel down a road that’s hard and long.
Each line has but one goal, one final tune:
To reach the hearts of men—and God’s own ear. |
