This is my morning,
my rising sun.
This is my coffee,
the toast almost done.
And this is my paper
where people die,
and this my time
to sit and cry.
These are my hands
piped with veins.
This is my laughter
that cuts through the pain.
And these are my feet,
toes curved and bent,
carved by decades
the quest for rent.
This is my family
squared in this frame.
This is the man
I had a chance to tame.
And these are moments
I have to keep,
the sliding embers
that help me sleep.
This is my story -
no big deal.
This is my journey
to define what’s real.
And this is my religion
coming into view,
my fears, my questions,
before I’m through.
No comments:
Post a Comment