To the Light

There is not much of me
left.

A glimmer.
A whisper of God’s breath.
Little more.

It would be easier to sleep
until the end.

But you have rarely managed the easy way.
That strange stubbornness of your father
and the mad optimism of your mother
runs deep.

You never quite got the knack of dying. Instead
You fly
like a moth to the flame,
sure somehow you will not burn
even as the ashes fall off your wings
About this poem

A rough day starting up today. But here I am, halfway through it and flying. Action trumps anxiety. Action trumps depression. Some days, I deserve an Oscar.

A hard head helps.

Tom