In a skullcap, hunched over a small, black hutch
One arthritic claw hand clutches the long shaft
of a feather quill. He'd given up on life, but still writes
this letter filled with dying wishes, lying by omission.
In his final instant of denial, bile builds up
Looking to the sky defiled with the high hopes he was killed from
Crooked spine aligned finally, he breathes a silent sigh of relief
It took a life of trials and tragedies to see this side of my own extremes
|