Yeah, I said
this is a fucked up
drinking town
pouring myself
into each glass of reborn
into the reach-fingered ripe
of an old house burning
down to the ground
I have become
a creak now
and I groan against
what I want to do
who knew being myself
was so hard
and so good for me
to crawl to
I didn’t ask for this mantle
all I knew was
I had to steal
whatever I could
in order to feel
something that was mine
and not someone else’s borrowed
handed down life
something that was my own
something as heavy as rain
something birthing me
as mist will often do
between trees
standing guard
outside myself
for a smile
in the face
of the coming Summer
the memory
of what used to be
is a ghost of snow
in the eyes of flies
all that remains of Winter
is in the slate blue ash
from last night’s fire
waiting for me
and my
empty glass
EJR ©
poem 134 of a poem a day for 2012 (NaPoWriMo22)
http://theblindlantern.blogspot.com/2012/04/poem-134-of-poem-day-for-2012.html
