Untitled Poem

For every grain of sand I am grateful but more so for the little lives.
For the seconds of sorrow, for the hints of joy and for the mist that was the coming days.
For the uncertainty of what was next to the affirmation of what came before, to the reflection on the spectacle of the years gone by I thank you.

But most of all for the stoicism of your hands and the ill-at-ease of your eyes, for the chameleon texture of your hair that takes on the color of the black walls and marble halls.
For your lethargic days where the eye and ego strays.
For the brass horns of your shout bringing in labor from the walk-about.
For your focus and your strive and the spirits of our beehive.
For the final attraction in a time spent coming close to the winter of my discontent.
For making me ask myself ‘why’ for the first time in years spent making doves sigh.
For the last supper on this day foul before the fear comes from the Samhill’s howl.
For the returning memory of how love grows before the bones are picked clean by the vultures and crows.
For the bows stretched by this strong arm, drawn upon the wicked to keep you safe from harm.
For the moonlight you shine down on the cruel jewel of the empire’s crown.
For the lengthy hours you spend handing out the sweets and the sours.
For the days spent on your feet enduring with good humor and mastering the land’s repartee of producer/consumer.
For hiding your affection at all the right times and respecting my wishes to quietly repent my crimes.
For keeping intact the life of the mind, a practice this thoroughbred left evidently behind.
For the evening of great sorrow and taxing plight and the uncertainty of what lies in hindsight.
For re-igniting the fires to perform the unequivocal and the chaos and rage of proportions biblical, and the freedom of spirits confined.
For the enduring will to repair a soul broken and the resigning of gestures and tokens.
For the squeaks and winks beneath the waves of your eye lashes that awakened this burned out warrior’s ashes, for the kind words given in succession that could lift up the wayfarers of this depression.

For the exits momentary that briefly brought ten breaths in this new dark age… and lots of other things…..and lots of other things.