04-12-2018, 06:49 AM
The Threshold
In the end, the orange ball will glaze the sky
on the final wet dark of morning. You will stare
at an open door that no one else can see, lightÂ
peeking beneath the crack, as the dwindling shadow
of your body will recede like water into parched earth.
Your voice will lose its rasp and bubble up
like a fountain. Your last words are that I must
forgive myself, something you could never do in life.
In the end, the orange ball will glaze the sky
on the final wet dark of morning. You will stare
at an open door that no one else can see, lightÂ
peeking beneath the crack, as the dwindling shadow
of your body will recede like water into parched earth.
Your voice will lose its rasp and bubble up
like a fountain. Your last words are that I must
forgive myself, something you could never do in life.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson