January 10, 2009
By Drew Dunnack, Lebanon, CT


It happens every year-
We waltz with death to the twang and moan
Of life’s last sonata in the rising morning light,
And then turn around to watch the organic cessation;

The trees blossom with all their strength,
Bear golden fruit,
And wilt.

I simply can’t see the purpose
Behind such passiveness.
Why would you ever embrace a snake
That fangs its way into your soul?

“Un- unfurl!”
‘Maintain your f-f-faith!”
People shakily command me to movement,
But in the end we’re bound to get skewered.

“Clean it up!”
“Wait your turn!”
“Don’t you ever forget me!”
They think that confidence grows on trees,
But their flames have only just begun to weaken.

There’s a fear living in my heart-
A deep cranberry hue,
Acrid and sweet.

Active fighting,
Then stupor, silence-
You can be my beacon of light in the afterlife
So that I can return home and start from scratch.
What’s yours is mine.

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