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Rated: 18+ · Poetry · Death · #1561067
Travail at the end of life, a heart's lamentation.
How he bound me, oh so long.
Thirteen years...I could have gone!
Constant fear held me strong
in his grasp. No song, no song.

Why I wallowed, weak and dreary,
doing his bidding, vision bleary.
Was I needy, loath to venture,
lest I taste certain censure?

Now I hate for life long wasted,
choices wanting, sweets untasted.
Caught in aging’s faltering glimmer,
candle shimmering dimmer, dimmer.

Would I walk if once more over
I could shout I’ll not be lower
than the eagle free to soar
to the ocean’s distant shore?

Or would I tarry, doubtful still,
trapped forever in private hell
with only Fate to toll the bell,
with only He to close the sale?

My God, oh God, he’s on death’s door,
bearing pain few men have bore,
while I sit o’er the pit,
loath to measure the truth of it.

Why? Why? Must I shorn
the sharpest prick of life’s thorn
rending this heart so forlorn,
tattered asunder twisted and torn?

For if I grip hallowed tautology,
I must admit love’s psychology:
the one I berate, I did first love.
He rescued me, the frightened dove.

Is it just? Is it fair?
You bust and I there,
knowing, watching day’s decline,
sensing, feeling, the coming time,

of death’s piercing barb with no relief,
sleepless nights, unending grief?
Seeking not this painful stroke,
suffering life’s cruelest joke.

No, no it’s not you I’m angry with!
You once saved me with a tender myth.
No not you, I’m mad at me -
I’m the dunce - I failed to flee.

Still, you trapped me with a lasting debt
(one I paid and still pay yet).
I’ll stand by, how could I leave?
Until he sifts Eternity’s sieve,

honoring Spirit's infinite show,
gathering together nature's flow.
Seeping, weeping steady pour,
‘til the heart breaks no more

and the eagle touches shore…

© Copyright 2009 Brent Sisson (cybersisson at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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