The Dusty Trophy Shelf

ground down,
by life's millstone
into a pile of moist
plasma, with dull, vacant
eyes that still capture
the occasional rapture,
but whose fire has
long since left for
the coast,
he keeps scribbling
in his cell that he
knows so well,
it's automatic,
it's autopilot,
it's a freaking riot,
to see him fade
in front of himself
to a paler shade;
ready for the urn,
ready for his turn
on the dusty trophy shelf.



January 5, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.