Sitting here, forced to look in the mirror,
He is more tired, and looks older
Than I imagined him to be;
The reckoning may be closer,
Than I imagined it would be:
The certainty of death
Takes my hand, without a look,
Pulls me down a dark path,
With light glowing from the end,
And makes me walk one last mile,
All the invitations rendered without a smile;
And all the while,
I was sure that I had been invited.
December 21, 2008.
Copyright © 2008, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.