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Soon is the time when blankets will be tucked under chins
moonlight will wash over frosted trees.
the clinking sound of empty milk bottles
early in the pre-dawn air as life begins to stir from slumber
moving into day.
I find myself on bended knees
I hear myself say.
as if a prelude to the words that God might pray
There are no whispers now
this thin reed life bends so slowly still
I long somehow
to capture the sound of fleeting footsteps
with my quill as if contained
it could be reigned in, caught up,
but not so brief encased
So soon the memories are all erased
We all ask for it
Breathed between the breath
seeking life fearing death
But soon, so soon.
This lasting night with fingers stroking
hearts and minds and souls provoking
Born upon our backs and taking
all the gifts enjoyed by living
All nations of our weak vocabulary’s trace
marked in lines on every weary face
Our friend invites us in for tea
Once or twice to taste
And every night we sleep
and in our slumber
seem so meek
Arise Goliath, pantheon of prayered Gods
Unhook your coats
move to where your Father trods
The path called Destiny awaits
we, of little choice, are lost, who hesitates
For we are the Trolls of our fears
listening deep with forefathers ears
marching on and ever on
the slippery and the shining
to a dusk and to a dawn
comes the now for which we wait
A crashing cow thrashing now
within each moon’s arising
And we upon our books rely
all tears of yesterday defy
sums upon our sums surmising
until at last we die
Soon the poured tea gone
all laments stored by generation
classified and categorized
organized and strategized
our lasting stain.
What have we really learned
when all that burned was one brief match?
A scratch upon the pimpled ass of life.
It is not one
It is not many
all there is
approaching the collected
neglecting the infected
collecting the neglected
reproaching the protected
So many useless/useful things
surrounded by your view,
instilled with meaning, bought
and stored by you.
The pillow will seem softer now
life filled with fuzzy logic,
not so harsh.
The hurters seem more hurt.
The rushed more passive in their passing.
The garish ghosts just sheets of starch.
A rain that washes from the inside now.
Thy Will be done
and soon i will become.
Copyright © vernon witmer | Year Posted 2020
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