PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

A dried leaf weaken by season breaks off from an

even weaker branch.

Wavering left to right in the intangible sky

as it descends to the far ground below on an

oddly humid autumn afternoon.



A grandfather, a veteran of a brutal world war and

a veteran of an even more treacherous battle with

stroke, dependency, and age. Savoring his few

precious moments while resting on his trusty plush

recliner as his last breath is stealthfully stolen

away, without struggle, as he gradually ascends

from his cramped favorite section of the room to his

long-awaited Avalon above.



John B. Smith irons, buttons, tucks his gray

dress shirt in his tailored pants with his brown

polished loafers. Issues x's and o's to his wife and

family of 3 and heads to work taking I-35 north.

His day is brimmed with quotas to meet, neckties to

straighten, and debts to file, then coming home

with dinner waiting and later climbs in his lumbar

supported bed for his long night's rest.

Cut, copy, and repeat loop.



So yes oblivion

I too welcome your unseen presence into my hollow structure

Just as how you have graced over my listed comrades.



The well of substance has run dry far too many times

and the drought of this loneliness has battered my

supposed pride long enough.



Because



There's no excuse for living in this state if you

never go anywhere worth while...