the end of the plan

down they go, one by one,
all those dreams that I lined up,
polished and shiny, ready to be won;
now I stare at the bottom of an empty cup.

the drumbeat pounded by the angry troop,
resonates and vibrates and pulsates
enough to make my ears bleed,
enough to make my self-control droop.

the sound -- soft -- and then loud
swells and overwhelms me
now, just lost in the crowd
of angry jeers and Bronx cheers:
no more rest, no tranquility.

doors close, windows slam
my fingers left bleeding in every jamb;
hope dies and I realize
I am less than half a man,
following the end of the plan.



January 7, 2009.

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