The First Month
Always (all of his life, anyway),
He'd prided himself on being able to ride out a storm,
Any storm, be it emotional, moral, physical.
But his first month proved too formidable.
Caught in the eye of a looming climacteric
Demanding he become who he'd be
Five, fifteen, thirty, fifty, eighty years hence,
He sought shelter in a bell jar,
Withdrew into an impenetrable shell of silence,
Content to let the years allotted to his destiny
Fly by, like wild, migrating geese,
Across an argentiferous sky bleeding from oblivion.
And in that comatose nowhere, invisible to time,
He survived a mere three days more,
Before succumbing to the prospect of responsibility.
09/08/08 - (1)
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