John Messenger


I know I know, mind,
there are many endless things
in my world, so many
to-do’s and have-done’s and yet-to-come’s.
My life on the canvas of a leather bound planner,
raucous with a rebel art called
“blue pen and a life left yet to live.”

It’s masterful
what the artist has done with times and places and dates
all spinning like plates on their pedestals
and not one will wait
for a deep breath
to mitigate
for a moment this endless
artillery hinged on gravity and
momentum holding hostage
an otherwise shattered life.

But none of that matters now,
I tell myself. 
It isn’t part of this world.
I don’t want it to be part of this world.

Here there is only dark…

…dark and my thudding heart,
finding its pace
and its way
back to the stillness,
back to beneath
all the day’s crazy motion
still spinning
like the steel wheels of the locomotive
long after the last fire
has gone to smoke.

There is only this
darkness now.
This gift of death.

This silent place
in which the plates can wait.




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