I am gone from here completely
but for what is left that remains.
And I would gladly
and freely give all that away.
For what had become of me
is of no real measure,
for what it is of now
that lives through me,
and leaves no benchmark stains
in its method of departing.
I used to live like an alcoholic,
but, for me, it was
only between the post-swallow
and pre-physical-surge stage.
Now I have no obvious addiction
like that to claim.
Sure my favorite food for the soul
maybe a tear filled sponge
to wring in this moment.
My favorite organ's function
maybe vampire bats in my lungs,
flying the air flow
in shadow's permission
to live out the night's instincts
as sleep that never satisfies
and awake-ness that never replies.
I leave a trail of dander
as disrobing tissue
then on to the deep hollow
of my bones.
I use my belt as a hangman's rope
around my waist
for death to be politely slow.
I fully breathe
to intimidate the inevitable
as any action
is smiting death's smile
by staring back.
I can sigh ironic laughter
and plead with reason's deliverance
but all sensibilities are inflatables,
buoyant on the sea
of misery's made
as motion sickness.
Oh someone with a lit candle of spirit
will turn this way
and I will thrive on how their flame
warms their very being.
This gift of witness
provides me untold nourishment
of the kind that neither strengthens
or weakens me straightaway.
Just that embrace of itself,
as best as can be had
will feed me invisibly.
I plead to be with all beings
through their circumstance
yet no storied account
in which to cast remarks,
no lingering in which to stabilize
what could become of memory,
just a procession of moments
that glow their light in passing
and take their spirit evocatively forward
through the brokenness
of their cavernous expectations . . .
as joyless joy comes through
as what is momentously empty
it seems,
becomes the whole of me
and I, am gone . . .
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