By J.D. Moss
I can’t share the carrot,
but can’t eat it alone either.
The chariot comes easily.
Has fuel enough for me.
Has no oil to cry.
Has no chair to rest in.
The jellybean jar is empty.
If it was ever full.
My toenail has grown,
into the floor of hell.
Want to go. Can’t. Why?
Waiting for Godot.
It is not what I lack,
but what I know not what I lack.
It is not my gut,
but what my gut reads.
The rose is too red.
Must be black.
It is not his music.
Must be his soul.
I bleed my blood,
from my own sword.
The wind carries my song,
yet not toward home.
My fall is almost done.
So why do I try to fly?
I must eat the carrot,
and then let go.
From “Bring the Curtain Down”
Copyright 1983 by J.D. Moss