The Dying Body Chronicles 27: Bidding my time
So he said;
I'm deleting myself from people.
I'm emptying my body of this life
it's been carrying about.
The weight's become too much to bear.
I just want you to know I'm drawing
my curtains & lowering the music.
I'll not be coming to the door.
I'll not be coming to the phone.
You'll not find me at the altar
baring my soul to God.
No, I'll be smoking my blunt,
bidding my time, waiting for this flesh
to slough off. Don't ask me why?
Have I not carried this life with you?
Don't say don't go. What sweetness
is here that I've not tasted?
What remains?
He hasn't met me, hasn't scaled Mount Washington, hasn't bathed in Saratoga Springs. I'm sure there is plenty sweetness he has not tasted.
Maybe, but know his tongue
is swollen black, spit thick as sand.
His taste has died.
He bids his time.