CONSIGNMENT
One day you finally
got tired of thinking
about dying. About
your body and its little
woes. You understood
there’s a world
out there beyond
your skin that doesn’t
care a fig or a thistle
what you’re thinking,
where you go,
whether you live
or not.
That was the day
you consigned yourself
to your dust,
and, like Job,
declared yourself
content.
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Don’t tell me I’m going to actually be able to leave a comment? If so: wonderful. These poems the past months have been astonishingly beautiful & moving.
Thanks, Ray. You get some credit, since they’re based on the Poem-a-Day discipline!