what of this shall pass?
the famous poet once whispered in my ear,
"there is muscularity in risk"
to which I add, in pain, in fear
would I choose the passing
of the very essence of my being;
flowing into a familiar river of dark?
the muck I love and wear so proudly. you muse.
you old war-horse; carrying the knowledge
of starving children, cancer death, holocaust,
the stink of a cadaver. the shame of the unspoken.
do we embrace the Phoenix symbol? the rise from ash?
the celebration, the unevenness, imperfection, decay.
pure glory, so unexpected.
had I actually bet against myself?
had I counted on a yellow death?