With My Last Breath

Doré_-_Styx

Life in this world won’t wait.
It doesn’t care if you wish
to stand on the sidewalk
and watch, or step out
among the passing parade.
It’s a river that will not
cease movement and is known
to overflow its curb stone
banks and sweep away those
who stroll unaware of its
Great Flood seeking to drown
us all beneath its breathless
Babel of false gods,
its phony prophets,
its fake kings and
blustering blowhards,
the flotsam floating by
all with fists clenched,
grasping hands
and siren songs.
I ignore them, my deafness
selective and insouciance insolent.
They can all go to hell.
I’m sure to fall in one day,
but it’ll be in my own time,
on my terms and mine alone,
dropping into my own place,
with my final exhalation.
I’ll be warning the world it
had better make some damn room.

A quickly penned poem inspired (admittedly quite obliquely) by the following quote offered by my friend Sharyl Fuller for this week’s Writing Outside the Lines Challenge.

“What if the world is holding its breath — waiting for you to take the place that only you can fill?”  ~ David Whyte

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2 thoughts on “With My Last Breath

  1. Whew! Reading this, a particular person came to mind with your words…”false gods…phony prophets…fake kings and blustering blowhards”, but I know they could apply to far too many. Still, a certain 70-year-old certainly fits the description. Good one.

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