Soon
He will come for me, soon.
Before the day’s end.
Before love can hurt.
Before hope grows cold.
Before the charcoal night.
He will come for me, soon.
And long before the moon can
Shed its desolate bleached
White across the land.
Stretch out your hand,
You can almost feel mine.
Pout your lips,
Mine are so close!
Open your arms,
My embrace is a corner away.
He will come for me, soon.
Stitch these words, brother,
Into my funeral pall.
Send him the withered wreath,
And a bill.
Copyright © Paul James | Year Posted 2010
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