A poem

Last words from a lost soul lingering
all his chickens have come home to roost
the cat cast among the pigeons,
I hesitate; metaphors suggest time has moved on
and passed this persistent poetic pest.

Let his last words be “Bloody Hell” of “What the eff!”
as the Reaper rakes, takes him totally
by surprise ensconced in his comforting lies
“It’s not your turn yet”
tempting fate, it is never too late until it is
too late.

In the dusty spare room, the old box stuffed
Grandmothers old quilt, faded pictures
his guilt barely contained by broken locks
and sheets of yellowing newspaper,

Lost soul, find your way, there is still some light
left in this fading day,
the distant horizon is as fixed as it ever was
pigeons can seek another roost
let your ancient fears loose, let your last words
be Thank You for this
and every single day.

CP26