Upon Death my thoughts have been anchored
much to the dismay of my creaking ship.
The precious drops of life's morphine drip
siphoned away by the gathering storm clouds
of my coming decay.
Move forward I shout, go past even the veil!
Pull up the anchor, wind it tight and toss it
out of sight, to be used when the time is ripe.
Each passing second, hoard together and hold
give a soft kiss and then mold.
Mold it, as putty in the hands of a child
or wood and whittling knife in the
hands of the wizened man rocking in his chair.
See the seconds, laugh loud and clear,
let the echoing chorus reverberate off
the imagined walls at the limits of you,
shaking them, loosening the containing
mortar and bricks, reduce them to ruble.
This all should not have been
the crisp morning air, the damp thunderous nights,
my ears perk up at each just to see,
for just the chance to be.
Do not bargain the waking seconds as they tick away,
do not auction them to the impatient void,
it will feast on them and demand evermore.
Run to the skies, drown in golden light!
Cross red stained eyes with your other,
clasp hands and rejoice
for we are all in this together.
Remember the hues at the edge of the forest,
memorized and lost in them my eyes once again
catch the flashing greens of wind blown leaves,
surrounded by flies heavy with maggots to breed.
The cracks begin to show, I pull back the battering ram
once more and push, crashing it into the barrier,
chiseling away the limits of the barricade,
the limits of an anchored ship,
and prepare my stock for the open sea.
