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.
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!