EPILOGUE
caught
lightning in a bottle
a
tiger by its tail-
somehow, someway
this
race has run its course; this ship has set it’s sail;
you
could smell the rat,
you
could hear the dropping pin,
his
days are numbered—got him dead to rights,
his
fat is in the fire, on this cold, cold, darkened winter’s night
Prologue
sheltered
from the sun—
imagination
runs riot, off the beaten path, for miles and miles,
improving
each shining hour; in full cry—
every
inch the king—a dream awoken from and by
ACT I
it’s
not all beer and skittles though, but this to you, I need to tell. Still, even
so, I do understand, I get the pointed view:
“It’s
all wool and a mile wide,” as is with the cost of life, the way it is one must
take pleasure from the simple things—yet, please provide me a word edgewise,
take it for what it’s worth, but I’ll call it advice, “gather ye rosebuds as ye
may, but don’t count your chickens before they’re laid.”
what
once was deemed old hat
death
has since warmed over; that well’s run dry,
all
things weighed in the balance
and
found wanting time and again
it
costs a pretty penny here and now
the
world’s gone astray, off the wall and down the hall,
no
longer a bowl of cherries; no longer simply left to chance,
too
many ill gains for some—while for many—
the
fattest calf’s since grown thin
ACT II
but
these memories I’ve since forgotten—the good times, the bad times, and all the
mediocre sections in-between, I am who I am at this day in time, no future self
to ponder, no past tense to plunder the present me away. I’ve bided time, I’ve
waited, I’ve prayed—instead of direction, instead of guidance, I’ve been graced
with idle chitchat
composed
of weasel words. It is now, I understand, things must change!
I’ve
been the drawer of water; I’ve been the hewer of wood,
yet
I’ve also hid my light under many a bushel—both being paths that led me to the
same old sight
I’ve
stared deep into the face of dismay; I’ve found pearls before swine, been cast
into outer darkness, but only once have I ever had the privilege of sitting in
the catbird seat, and that time is nigh.
Act III
…and
there’s the rub:
snares
and delusions often appear, well before the shoe fits the other heel. Hell is
paved with good intentions—this I all too greatly understand. When will that crow come calling? When will
that ship set dockside? When will the
answers appear?
I
wait and I wait, forever and a day; the hour is upon me now, a decision’s
due—and as every schoolboy knows, what’s here today is gone tomorrow. No need
to live them drowning in sorrow; no need give pause again. I’ve done all that’s been asked; I’ve been
the good soldier—taking each task to heart—yet the only response I’ve ever
received, are those notes passed by the tolling bells, the kind that always
played so well. Tonight, however, in
part because, I refute their song, no longer will I play this part, no longer
will I be solely made of the dove.
bloody
but unbowed
the
time is ripe:
to
take a tilt at the windmills
to
bear the burden and the heat of the day
to
run roughshod over all that comes
to
ring down the curtain
to
rip it to shreds
to
greet the rising tide
to
bear the brunt of what may be
to
find that red letter day
to
beard the lion in his staid
to
live, for once, a life that’s alive; unafraid
to
live a life that’s free
to
live the life that was meant for me
Join
me over at D’Verse for another installment of Open Link Night, where some
amazing poetry will be on display. While
there, share a piece of your own as well.
Doors open at 3:00 PM, See you there.
