“what dreams may come”/“Death, a necessary end, will come when it will come”
in my dreams–
I am time ravaged ‘n sore,
reeking of vice ‘n long past leathered.
hand laid rest on the brow of some blue-eyed husky.
scrawlin’ out madness in diction.
anything to drown out the snow-fall silence of the night.
candle sputter ‘n tired
time ravaged ‘n sore,
long past leathered.
“when it will come.”
long gnarl-knotted fingers splayed across the desk,
rubbing the grain like old, old friends,
handle to head ‘n chop to block,
cut to shape ‘n built to stain,
these hands, these hands–
–build to last.
lungs puff-stained ‘n weezing,
low sputter beneath the scritching pen.
these boards, I’ve lain, shall lay me one last,
“a necessary end”
there are no concerned tones,
no fluttering children or loves,
just candle light, one last poem, one sleep droopin’ dog,
‘n ages ‘n ages of snow.
hard-sunk eyes scowl their way, line by line,
they’ve seen the comings ‘n the goings,
‘n they ain’t seen much in the way of surprises,
not anymore.
the dog gets up, slow ‘n yawning,
needs to piss.
him ‘n me both.
I’m alreay fading, he can’t see me, or maybe he’s losin’ his sight,
but I crack the door as we wander into the long, long night.
leave it cracked, the heat ‘n the home for him to return to.
no belt-bellows,
no cracked earth,
just an old man dyin’ in the snow,
pissin’ himself in his last moments.
“what dreams may come.”
You can find this poem and others in Volume III of the Altar Collective, available here for $10.
