The Match

Shadows
in a tunnel of worn out light
fist
just a glimpse of
pump and jab
pheshew! pheshew!

then the shadows part,
obeisance to the light
a ghost
mystery shrouded
in gray ducking hood
- a golden robe
shouting dominance
in vibrant silence

shuffle and dance
on a false floor
in a four corner ring

just another rematch
jester
to my own defeat
again

I've seen it Harlem attitude
Northern mountain latitude
the mocking waves
of piss tangle sea
and the rush of regret
that wont let me be

I've known it
in the wasted tears
of my last breath
choked
in whispered hope

heard it
in the rage of
my own impatience
to right
my forever wrong

suffered it
in the blow
of another's pompous storm
tearing the roof
from my hide

always forlorn
in hooded shadow
greying the worn out light
milking my fear
to boil its blood
for cause
yes,

which and whose?

mene mene tekel peres

yes, upon the wall
tag my soul

i'd like to find it
on the corner
smoking a last cigarette
ah!
then could I barter!
then might we reason
tired eye to tired eye

but wisdom banded in thunder
and judgement written with lightning
is a fool's fight,
for only one possesses it
and that
as if nothing

but still I stand
foot upon step
finger upon reason
tired eye
to a blistered sky
and hear only
in banded thunder

mene mene tekel peres

and know it is so,

just a little too late

~rick