The weary tome

The winding tentacles

of a sinister plaque –

history repeating

as fools are apt

to be caught blinking.

History don’t shimmy or shake –

it ain’t sexy, so it stays hidden

not forbidden –

while my Unc earnestly warned me –

“It’s a storm coming gaddamnit!”

Sharp breaths –

pungent scent of the reaper –

searching for passengers

on the river Styx

Aww Lawd… ain’t this some sh____.

---

I’m tired of writing poems

and tomes

for those who I love

in repose.

How am I

to consecrate or illustrate

grace when

there is sorrow –

a void where

my heart once resided?

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