Archive 09/08/08 - (1)

   

The First Month

              

Always (all of his life, anyway),

He'd prided himself on being able to ride out a storm,

Any storm, be it emotional, moral, physical.

 

But his first month proved too formidable.

Caught in the eye of a looming climacteric

Demanding he become who he'd be

 

Five, fifteen, thirty, fifty, eighty years hence,

He sought shelter in a bell jar,

Withdrew into an impenetrable shell of silence,

 

Content to let the years allotted to his destiny

Fly by, like wild, migrating geese,

Across an argentiferous sky bleeding from oblivion.

 

And in that comatose nowhere, invisible to time,

He survived a mere three days more,

Before succumbing to the prospect of responsibility.

 

 

 

 

09/08/08 - (1)

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
       

 

 
   
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