Counting Time

The reports of my death were far closer to the truth
that I am comfortable admitting,
a mere mark on the wall,
black and white, counting time
without any of the grace or energy
of graffiti.

Perhaps the end had not come.
I breathed,
at times well and deep, fully conscious
of the emptiness, unable
to define it, simply loading more paint
on the brush, hoping somehow art would emerge
in thick dollops of paint,
something beautiful, half history, half miracle,

a muse made of equal parts habit and magic,
love and sight, sacred and self,
until, unexpectedly I found myself alive,
in your arms, a dancer unafraid
to leap off the stage,
and into the night,
your music trailing after me
in laughter and glee.

About this poem.

We climb out of our dark places, but rarely do we climb out alone.

The picture was taken in Roanoke, Virginia.

Tom