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(Wellington, New Zealand)

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State Of Delivery

I am but one breath
Removed from death
I feel all its shivery
State of my delivery
********
I belong to a generation
Whose sunset hovered around fifty
I am on my trip to the next station
Seventy might be the new fifty

What have I done with my surplus?
A gift of extra living given to me
Have I built the strongest fortress?
In a world that imprisons the free

I have but the one means
My pen builds silver letters to shield
The destitute with no keys
I help unlock poetry’s fertile field

Who decides each station stop in life?
Is this random selection at play?
To be rich or poor whose knife
Is the hunter’s aim, or the fallen prey?

One day I’ll be gone like most candles
Whose wicks lasted for a while
Which light? Which path, which sandals
Mark the grounds with my style

Was it a style to be remembered by?
Voice of the poor and the downtrodden
Or have I piled golden nuggets sky high
To be squandered: road to greed broaden

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
We all one day seed the grounds of death
No monument fools memories just
Death won’t erase a scandalous breath

Forgive me for protesting my rhyme
This anger within eases my pain
Is this the final stop, is this my time
Then nail the board across my grain

January 27th 2014
Copyright Leaking Pen 2014

Submitted: Monday, January 27, 2014
Edited: Thursday, January 30, 2014


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