On this road
Death with his thumb out hitching a ride
His weathered look slowing you down
He’s been with you since the womb
Chewing on his bottom lip endlessly
Promising in his eyes a place of climax
Wind ruffling his long hair stitched into his scalp
His raincoat layered with dust from a waterless world
You stop
Foot hard on the brake
Miles away from your homeland of strangers
Your car stolen from a bank parking lot
You reach across the car seat and brush away crumbs
He gets in with a grunt and closes the door
He folds his hands upon his lap
Lip bleeding into his chin whiskers
Gnarled whiskers
As if separate entities searching
Daylight soon
Taking your foot off the brake to the gas
His aroma filling the car
Musty yet fertile
You drive down into a valley thick with trees
A half moon with sharpened points
He doesn’t speak but talks through thoughts
I am your guide to the sprouting of wings
You’re not dead yet
You still have a last breath in which to choose
Will you succumb to the crow or achieve the dove?
Not so long ago, Stephen Jarrell Williams was called by some, the Great Poet of Doom… Now, he writes at night, enthused, and waiting for the Coming Good Dawn.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.