i still carry a little book with my poems
these days it's blue instead of black
and the tones are a little more grey
is it time that mellows
or is it the punishment time deals out in waves?
the endless sorties flown by the pilots of indecision?
perhaps the barrage of artillery from the gunners of doubt?
all i know is one day i woke up and the black book was too heavy
the stones of age and dysfunction grind slowly but with certainty
the harvest of this autumn is fear
and this winter will last forever
did all of your words get written?
how many lines left in the canyons of wasted days?
what good did you leave undone in the stillness of nights forgotten?
so i scribble away
line after line
blue notebook this year
maybe yellow next
and pink the year after
finally one day it may be white
-the year i give up the ghost-
-the year the voices stop-
-when i can no longer hear babies cry or women sigh-
-when my rebellion is a fuzzy memory-
and my salvation no longer sleeps next to me
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