Sometimes I dream of dying
I depart as air
While shaking air departs
I bequeath myself to whatever air will have me
And hardly know who I was
Or what I meant
But the stolen parts of vanity.
They grind the grist of guilt
Into Winter that is perhaps hand
On a deadbolt, they move old and new
Until both have warped and skewed.
So I will drink my fill of dusty moonlight
While, intertwined with grace,
I swallow both faith and pride.
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