last battle

the shape of the sun,
and the color of fun,
all give way
to the face of a gun;
the visage of so much
left to be done,
the last stretch of a mile
left to run;
yet I sit here and
about what I realize,
and I realize that I have
not yet come to the
reality that is really me,
I have so much more
to be won;
and the rusty razorblade wishes
of those who would damn me,
fall away like some
oceanfront shanty;
living today like there is no
and pasting my wishes
on top of my sorrow,
I will not grieve
in a futile attempt to relieve
what always winds up
as a mere attempt to deceive;
I will stand up, and grab with
both hands,
every scrap of every bit of everything
that lands on the table, the chair,
and yes, even the floor,
and I will yell at the top of my lungs
for some more;
and though I know too well
that folk like me are destined for Hell,
I will whirl like a dervish,
through each little skirmish,
and I will come out on the other side,
master of nothing, except
for my pride;
and the chorus of angels,
and devils divine,
will all scurry and stagger
in the face of my time,
and I will ride through
steadfast, to the other side,
and legion will not soon
turn the tide;
and if it is true,
that spirits rule,
then it will turn out
that I was no fool.

February 17, 2010.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

No comments:

Post a Comment