Wisps as I am, oblivion’s a friend closer than those of future years,
breeding in the dead, dumb earth those which would glorify my return;
spit black pips.
When I was but half of my mother, and the dusty beetles,
buried deep within my bones,
I wailed in the dusk
And moaned till the dawn
Midwives grew anxious to my state.
More tomorrow, when a man, I’ll sit upon the mountain side,
old rams for company, I’ll survey the coming tides with pride.
When I was, will be, and have been to this day as you call
‘grown’
and the dusty brown beetles, in their caverns of bone, feasted on the
rot
of my lot.
The capricious sounding of my doom was winded over my mountain retreat.
Former stronghold, never more. Slashed against the vicious sky, I stand
a Totem pole, raw gristle and rind.
For oh, my days of standing tall, have fallen short; cursed in Their mountain retreat.
I wallow as if beached, a languid, limp reminded of a soaring life.
Hope watches; She bore them from me in yesteryear
and now they grow in the
dead, black, earth.
My virtues as nourishment,
they sap my death.
