The Warm Breeze of Last Words

There was a time when
I would speed to the music of youth,
running hellbent with the taste
of blood and steel in my throat,
making way for my hawk-like cry
as I swooped on the wind
down the crest of boyhood
to set upon the prey of maturity.
My heart still pounds to the beat
of the predator, the tongue
still tastes the salt and metal,
the once-smooth face feels the wind,
and the voice longs to shout
in its primacy over all below.

But I am the one down here,
the quarry of memories of
a life barely lived, battles never
joined, let alone won.
I’m the thin-feathered target
of talons felt steel-sharp,
pulsing the cooler blood
for the great executioner
who’s coming to free that last
warm breeze from my throat.
Will it carry words of love
or of defiance? Know this:
You’ll not have to bend close
to hear them.

Catching up with this free write in my November poem-a-day quest after two days of this life barely lived rolling boulders across the path of the roaring artist who never was.


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