Wednesday, 13 June 2012

My Inheritance

My Inheritance

Glistening and glimmering,

Too bold to just hide away,

In darkened, dreary, shades of grey,

And too old,

To well-worn and ripped to disappear into the ether,

This volume,

Hangs no matter how limply,

It belongs besides me,

And there it sits,

On its wooden shelf of a grave,

No longer driving me,

Its slave,

I’m suddenly bolder,

A little older,

But to be truthful,

I’m a little less me,

A little messy me,

Sometimes out of sorts,

And too often in cahoots,

With false schemes and lowly plans,

I’ve dropped too far in this grace race,

This race of hyper stasis,

The power of those phrases,

Once contagious,

Now just a faded memory,

Of the way that life used to be,

Before I rediscovered the honey tree of life’s elixirs,

Strife’s fixers and hope’s better fixers,

Because that prized possession,

Yesteryears obsession,

Is now a recipe for remasters,



Into something streamlined,

But actually,

Less sublime,

More of the time,

But less inclined,

To bless,

To bless the broken and instead,

To offer simple platitudes and token attitudes,

All in the hope of a glimmer of gratitude,

And all told,

It’s all sold,

My inheritance,

Exchanged for fools gold,

Soup too lukewarm to scold,

This redefined existence,

Without the need for persistence,

It brought a comfort cold,

But pleasant,

A remission from the inherent,

Trials of keeping going,

On a one way road, when the traffic’s slowing,

My inheritance,

Much maligned,

Put out to pasture,

Yesterday’s classy clothes,

Bagged up with so much charity shop junk,

But even now,


Silent and still,

But speaking,

Even in this moment,

When my inheritance stands between some Bolshevik,

And some mini atlas,

Even in that place,

It makes claims,

Stakes a claim,

Calls out my name,

Won’t desert me,

Won’t forget me,

Nags at me,

Calls to me,

Whispers to me,

Not as sin,

But succour,

Full to the brim with hope and questions,

Answers and incessant praise,

To fill fresh days,

To blow away cold shakes,

And tired headaches,

My inheritance,

Quietly screaming,

Calling out to be called out,

Calling out to fit between my hands,

Pages turning,

Words yearning,

To be read aloud,

My inheritance,

This pile of crusted words,

This bound bureau of divine light,

Click goes the desk lamp,

Let’s begin again.

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