As Demons Play Tug-Of-War With Angels
There are no replacements for what death steals
Souls were designed to move on leaving all grief behind
As Demons play Tug-Of-War With My Soul.
Five o'clock shadow wraps it's tentacles across my face. Cold cup of black coffee 6 hours old reflects my glassy stare. Half-eaten danish leaves a foreign taste in my mouth. Cheeks left stiffened from recent saline washes. Eyes red like a good hit of sensimilla would get them. Phone's silent now its last ring was so loud it fractured my heart ~ A good friend has died at 48...my age, into a box , into the ground , dry rot on satin. His still young face soon covered with a white mold and that's all there is.... that's all he gets. I can't imagine it all ending today as it did for him. Not under this sun's warmth with bird's choruses grass stretching and air sweetened as it's cut. Spring abounds . ~ I want to die in a frickin' blizzard, kicking and screaming , howling with the gales, as the demons play tug-of-war with some angels on my soul. I want to go when the weather makes you want to try the other side damn quick!! Leave me my Springs and Summers. Fill my lungs with their blessings. Send me out of here with the frost in air so cold that nostril hairs freeze. I won't care my nose will be stopped up forever. A bad snow day that's my highway, my ticket out oh, fates please... grant me this simple request . ~ but for now "Godspeed to you my dear friend. I'll lay some of Springs best on your grave. and in your place enjoy twice-fold this day in which I now exist without you.
© 2009 Matthew Frederick Blowers III