Pitter patter! Goes the rain on the roof again—like the hooves of a thousand war horses going to war again.
I wasn’t sure if that was the rain, but then the roof started to leak.
My mind is collapsing, brick by brick and a total collapse is on the brink of happening.
I was told to be meek but that was a sour milk, I drank it and now I’m curled in a corner of my mind with the sweetness on rewind.
The wind whistles like a hunter calling back his dog; like a spirit calling me to go home, and like a disobedient dog—I didn’t heed the call. I know my every breath is on credit—borrowed, but I still hang up on Death.
“What do you say to the god of death?”
Last night, the owls were silent—a night silence in preparation for my passing on, even the crickets observed it. Tonight, the heavens weep. They wail with thunders and rumbles like the belly of a hungry kid wails for the empty pot. It’s time to go home.
I can feel a gentle but irresistible force pulling my legs to kick the bucket—this isn’t a joke. My half-finished bottle of whiskey lays unattended and the breath of Death tickles my face. The war is almost over.
I don’t hope for much, even though my bad deeds don’t balance the scale of bad and good, I know I matter—have weight and occupy space in God’s heart. When I finally close my eyes, let me not be blind to the light.
I feel a gentle caress on my skin and hear a gentle voice saying, “Welcome home.”