The Gift


The Gift

Most days I'm the arsonist's pride,
Today I watch the flames divide
And as they flicker out of fuel
I watch them bargain red for blue.

Both night owls and the early birds
fight restless thoughts of faith deferred
But haven't they a stronger will
than those who've chosen not to feel?

Girls on blacktops take their turns
at transformations premature;
they give their bodies in exchange
for a sense of makeshift gain.

Eager boys all fall in line
to sip the potent, poisoned wine.
But veils of white are heavy made
for they reveal intent forbade.

But depth in words on tremoring lips;
pulsed, electric finger tips-
I would not trade this proof of life
for the inconsiderable chance to die.

Fleeting tears on little cheeks
like rivers spilling into seas;
A child moves himself along
to keep his ache from lasting long.

So still, the truth remains at large
that fields of green tucked under stars
affirm rhythms of Earth unchanged-
a constant state of unafraid.

Life's push and pull reveals to me
that beauty and consistency
are not always congruent fits
though souls like me have challenged it.

Like storms above a tired town,
I lay my ample burdens down
and barrel through against fatigue
that often proves too much for me.

Despite the trials ahead and gone,
This life or another one,
I gift myself the dawn of day
if even at the hands of pain.

I rise again and then once more,
Redeemed by light that lived before
And even when I'm called to kneel,
I'm indebted to my gift to feel.

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