*By Ricky L. Mohl Sr.*
I’m trying, were his words, the first that he said,
And the harder his attempt it got harder instead.
The rain beats upon the window, a lashing tattoo,
Such an undertaking of effort that he must renew.
I’m lying, were his words, they followed the first,
But they were idle ones and they came with thirst.
The night peeks in the window, be it friend or foe,
And the fabrication of it all should be his to know.
I’m crying, were his words, only the third spoken,
Falling from his eyes and leaving him all broken.
Streaks upon the window, the rain falls the same,
Weeping through the years that call out his name.
I’m flying, were his words, chasing those of third,
Such an uplifting of wind that could not be heard.
Slipstream of the mind, a window shuttered tight,
Letting go in a freefall that feels like second sight.
I’m dying, were his words, the last ones he said,
The price is so heavy that it fills him with dread.
Cold rain still lashes, the window bears the pain,
And the demise of today will further the restrain.
Ricky L. Mohl Sr.
August 14, 2017
© 2018, Ricky Mohl. All rights reserved.