Passage 13 of 50
June 11, 2013

I recognize my hand.

I recognize my heart.

I recognize my mind.

I grappled for this much, but

there's more easel than art.

There is no longer

the treasure-trove

that held my form.

The base and snare

of my voice is no

longer music.

What is the use of blood

if there is nary a heart

to harp on anything

jubilant?

Earth says I'm no

longer incumbent.

Well, my affairs

are sorted, but who

would want any of it?

My hand I see now is a joke about being so old

that I leave no prints, my heart is a snail melting

from the stings because my grave is salt, and

what was bought as current thoughts should

appear with tags with wet ink on them as proof.

© 2013 Jarrod C. Lacy