An Occulted Flux
...Nobody knows, not even if they want to...
I stand upon cold pavement.
Black and rough... like my heart.
I kick a nearby stone, it rolls away.
I wish I could do that too...
...Rushing away, the stone rolls...
I look down the metal can by my feet.
rusted and clangy, like bells.
I reach into my pocket, the metal within.
Feels cold, like ice... a never melting ice...
...Rusted and cold, relics of a past...
I smell the air, clear but of an urban nature.
I watch to my left as vehicles pass quickly.
Completely unawares of what will happen next...
...The black cold is coming, he is due...
I stare at my hands, tools... tools that shall have one final.
I lean down and pick up the metal can... I remove the lid.
Raise and pour, its contents spill over me.
Reach into my pocket, grab the metal.
Pull it out, and ignite...
...'My final is here... now for my last trick'...
'Forgive me Father for my sins, I wish absolution.'
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Comments about this poem (An Occulted Flux by Morgan Siegel )
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