Some Chthonic Thing



/ gift/ Age

As I think about aging out.

Some chthonic thing, a youthful surge
rises on its own like a boulder nearing
the top of a hill; it falters and rolls back.

I can hardly remember the girl beneath
the spiral staircase where so many home town
mothers began to lose their way in this world.

I long for the passions long past,
the rise of her breast with each breath
and the turmoil of our need.

But now I know why death's a gift.

I make the pain worse each day like a hungry
hyena re-chewing its last kill because its too weak
for the hunt and the prey is swift.

And in my pools of beer I reflect;
I say to myself that I can change;
I get another beer.

So I fight the electro-magnetic boogeyman
where the enemy is pre-defined for me.
It is easy, and sometimes even fun — where death's
defeat is nothing more than a right click away
and only costs a few shining coins of virtual gold.

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