Teetering on the tight rope –
Stretched between here and there –
Like prehensile tails my toes
Form around the cord, clinging
In the hope of love; of a moment
That will warm my heart and
Ease the torment that I live with,
Or the flash of divine intervention
That will cleanse everything I see
In one magnificent outburst
That, like x-rays, will penetrate all
That exists – all that has been created.

Youth has left me, dried and regretful
I call it nostalgia but it is more –
It is the recognition of what is lost
And may never be again:
Like the gentle breath of Robert
Who, on Sunday, died all alone.
Or blessed passion spent upon
Make-believe clouds of her desire.
The smoothness of youthful flesh,
The stamina of sprightly muscles,
The infinity of the far off horizon –
The ignorance of sybaritic youth.

Arms outstretched to balance
The passage from here to there,
Aching from ancient exertion,
From stiffened veins and skin.
In my mind there is the torment
Of a question – like so much more,
Never ever spoken or revealed –
That whispers incessant in my ears,
“Can I hang on long enough
To reach the end unbroken?”
Or will I fall – to be finally captured
By Hades regurgitating floor?

© griffonner 2021

3 Points

I should perhaps tell you that the ‘Robert’ mentioned in this was my Father-in-Law who sadly passed away unexpectedly whilst alone in our UK bungalow. :frowning:

1 point