Stumbling

Stumbling around upon some friends of late and ones once lived in the distant past

watching them go by like ghosts or angels, mere heart-chewing animals and fiery demons

no one can touch mine; I’ve too much preserved who it is—the world cannot touch what’s mine

I walk and watch, snarling dogs and hungry hyenas gathered around the dying stock—

no more lions to rule a jungle; a true jungle of man has always been run by itself;

the ones who die wait for the quarrel upon their body and the last drop of blood to end

till they smell their own flesh going foul like a fruit left rotten dying on top of a tree

scarecrows all around, for none that flies can come near, and hell to those in the undergrowth.

Stumbling upon the rotten bodies of my friends, I have finally found my way to the top;

I have never killed anyone, but death just passed like wind under my boots,

if like some fresh air, I stalled the choke a little more for it to come too late

or if like a hurricane, I stepped away from a body that mistook my foot for an anchor;

too heavy a ship in the middle of the storm; to go on, I had to let them go

for not being a Christ, I have been crucified every day for not carrying the cross;

a shame they blame me now for their being prostrate, helpless, unable to change

when all I’ve done is stumbling upon them, watching and stepping on my way.

February 8, 2016