The Guest
black coffee, and
cigarettes... clearing
the cobwebs from my head....
spent all night talking
to dead poets, and
standing by my mother's grave...
mortality hangs from my
neck like an anvil... waiting...
for the train to come....
sunlight pouring through
my fingers like dust....
falling to my feet with finality...
it comes down to this...
who have i loved by my living?
small children, women, companions...
or the wolf in the darkest
recesses within my being...
that longs to run with the wind?
have i been true for a moment,
for a moment is all this is...
a moment on the pathway
of eternity... have i left my mark?
have i breathed raw air?
have i burned down the house
to let the guest in?
poem by Eric Cockrell
Added by Poetry Lover
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