How did the despair become
fluid for clear, dry eyes to shed?
Why did the burden on the heart
allow the stress and cause the beat
to finally stop now limp to the touch?
I’ve learned to live bringing such pain,
to bear as a heaviness and darkness
conjoin in a ripe nectar squeezed from
my mind creating an apathetic caste.
In these times of death, we hum our
dirges and become oracles of peace
while pounding that holy black book
forever coalesced by millions of souls
whom freely gave lives in vindication.
Remorseful, I’ve learned to inhale deep
as I await my turn to be quickly plucked
from that great plum tree of life, ripe as
I search for epistemic loftiness within.
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran, poet and fabulist who is a three-time Pushcart Prize and two-time Best of the Net Nominee for 2016-2017. His work has been published world-wide in various publication venues. Ken loves writing, thunderstorms, walking in the woods at night and spending time relaxing and playing with his cats Willa, Turbo and Hemi.
