The Obdurate

I knew that at the end of days
I will be no more than dust and gravel
All day I listen to the music of bricks
Being layered over one another,
My vision obscure enough not to see the obvious
My thumping heart sounds strange
My hollow interior struggles to live the hours; but
My unforgiving memories unveils
The enigma that was hidden in the darkest corner
Called life….

I am to end under the slavery of solitude,
With my heart still pounding
For the reparation that is to receive
Which I shall realize by then will never come
So my obdurate self uttered the final fantasy
“Is it you,” the tired one said,
“Who still had the warmth left to lend?”

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7 responses to “The Obdurate

  1. Reminds me of monastics I know, seeing themselves as undeserving, but giving the one thing they have left.

  2. Great poem. I’d urge you to break out of the slavery that you seem to be into. Sorry about that. Things will get better? Of course they will! Sempre.

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