To the last, I’m rosy;
with so much left to give,
and not one inch comes undeserved.
I’m left perturbed I can’t give more
or draw this scene for evermore.
It’s time. My line will be
what use is there in fabrication,
dressing up an ugly truth,
or pretending coal is gold?
I’m old enough to live life better,
to play love smarter, and know to be kinder…
Days have passed since last I cast this thought
toward the rock I caught
my net upon;
forget and long for yesteryear
when truth-be-out was without fear.
The line remains upon my tongue;
sung, flung, wrung n’ hung –
the line remains, the fire remains
and stains disdain into refrains that sing
like stings before they’ve stung,
like pins in skin and lightning lungs –
the line remains upon my tongue.