. . . What's Left of Me
So this is me. Actually, what's left of me sitting stationary squinting at the sun
Weighing the differences of things I did and those things undone.
Dreaming is harder to do now than then since I'm only able to dream now and again.
One perpetual circle in sand no vital parts. No grasping hand.
The sky is endless, so big and long. Still, I wonder if "right" was replaced with "wrong."
Waters scare these shaky old bones. God is tired of my plea's, "please's," and moans.
Should I have left in eager age? On my own, but free of cage?
Fool-like, I stayed, and prayed, for seemingly one endless day.
When all the time laboring and reaching for fruit. All I got were lies and a *liar's loot
Sweating, begetting, circling life's field hoping one day to digest all of life's yield.
But words and promises, came cheaper by day. Clinging to vows when I should have ran away.
So here I sit looking, seeking and sighing. Dreading *the step of a drab time dying.
Maybe it was planned. Maybe it was a span. Now should I dare to ask.
The durge now sinks in seeking ears stirring my heart, soaking my fears.
The stone, a crying groan, and it's finished from flesh to bone.
Now ash and dirt all silence is gone.
More by this Author
A simple, heart-felt free verse poem about America's forgotten spectator sport: Dirt track racing.
An abstract/prose look at an elderly man looking backward and forward to his life that was and will be.
To Emmett Kelly.