November 4, 2010
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His inner thoughts resonate
His life is coming to a narrow strait

His steady hand
Made of spectral feathers
His life pours like sand
The hourglass empties, forever

As if in trepidation
The cold, dark room
His subtle reverberation
His inevitable doom

His heart up high
His head hanging low
His father’s guitar
His only memento

He reaches towards the sky
The way his father had
“I know my demise”
But he will not be sad

Music is in his fading soul,
Love in his family’s lives
But as he grows ever-so-old,
His ribs appear like splintered knives

Inside his heart,
He knows the time
But his passion still burns
Like a biblical chime

So, In memory of his father’s last breath,
His head, in ascendancy, held up high,
He replies to the dreaded Angel of Death…
“’Scuse me while I kiss the sky”

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