Kairos on the Deathbed

Kairos on the Deathbed

Just as the last breath one draws,
envies the first which was taken,
there is the time in between
which bridges the two,
imparting uncoloured clarity.

It is not always a gift, this opening,
which can be a whip lash critic
without the service of mercy,
underlining each ill-conceived deed
in one’s own blood.

It is all there:
the derelict designs, sidestepped red runners,
wasted tears over faces without names.
Corrosive words which raged to full blister,
milk-cream silence that curdled with review.

Favoured voices have grown distant,
while the perfume of the brighter seasons
has faded, leaving no legacy,
other than slight noise and
lifeblood bled dry.

But, penitence grows stronger,
ribbing us in our crippled position
by driving its tongue into our ear.
Unrewarded love, and fractures in trust
beget cyclic accusations from incredulous faces
flickering in and out, like the late August sun
beyond tittering, yellow-smudged leaves.
The grim nature of time has
erased all impressions in the mud,
and taken every earthly comfort.

Hard words, sharp edges,
‘could haves’ and ‘would haves‘,
are those which gleam in
a study of lost chances.
This is not the light
we look for, yet for some,
it is the one which
shines the brightest.