When came that echo,
that awoke time to tap me on the shoulder,
and what countenance before me tests my will,
for it loses my memory still,
stark and unwilling to take me back,
to what I thought I was.
You beguiled me, dragged me through the mire,
and when that fire went out,
I surely questioned,
the trailing smoke my embers doused,
yet here I stand, time-drawn and abandoned,
untethered from who I was, before.
At what moment did this take place,
a slippery moment I did not address,
I confess I’ve no recollection,
but still I am the same, in some way, surely,
standing before this reflection of ill,
agog and maligned by time.
Each day does deliver gifts,
each one a glimmer better than the last,
but my sea is ebbing and I cannot recall the tide
that began to slow this ride,
and I find myself like Rip Van Winkle,
old and weary and not an inkling of deliverance.
Who placed me here,
this image austere and I forlorn,
as flesh does by gravity wane,
drooping, paunch and swollen frame am I,
wasted limbs and hair in places
I rather not investigate or know.
I fear the echo, that warning from afar,
got lost in my e-mail draw,
and suddenly confronted by the truth,
I appear aloof, even to myself,
unwanted truth so harsh,
and life a downward slide, my twilight ride.
Still, I’m looking forward to be being a famous poet,
when I’m dead!
I wonder if I’ll know?
Tony DeLorger © 2017
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