The flames of all his heated passion
that at one time raged out of control
burning hotter than the fiery depths of
hell and higher than any fire that has
ever burned before that had once came
from his pen which was laying on the
messy desk is now just barely leftover
embers in the cold ashes of what was
his life, and the deep what had seemed
never-ending well that he pulled all
of his beautiful words from went from
what was a mighty river that was raging
making its own path cutting down just
about anything that stood in its way of
change washing away all the tears of
of hate and cries of social injustice
crashing down on years of depression,
and religious oppression wiping out all
of the cold and bitter darkness while
leaving only peace, love, and under-
standing in its trail is now just a barely
a little bit of a trickle that was slowly
streaming down the dirty gutter that
was built of self-regret and much sorrow
leaving it to fall and gather into a
stagnated pool filled with the stench
of guilt and eternal damnation as his ink
is running dry while all of the pages of
his life past and present where he would
sit and write down his every single
feelings and all of his emotions have
been ripped up torn apart and shredded
into little pieces then discarded into
a pile of trash where it lay there left
to rot away as it turns to dust and blown
away and carried up into the winds of
fate where it is dispersed amongst
the earth and skies never to be heard
from again as he lay there with nary a
breath waiting for death in a bed that
he had made, all alone with not a
single soul around listening to the faded
echoes of leftover laughter coming
from the shadows that were being cast
upon the wall by the now dying fire
and the constant sound of a drip drip
drip from the many teardrops of a
deep sadness falling that is filled with
tiny fragments of lost and broken
hopes and dreams, just as the last
of his blood that was being pumped
through a broken heart missing so
many pieces as it started to slowly
skipping every other beat, abandoned
and forgotten about by all of those he
loved and whom he had thought at least
at some point loved him too, and even
though the clock that was hanging on
his wall had stopped working with its
arms straight up showing that it was
one minute until the midnight bells
would sound, but in his mind, he knew
that it was much later than that, as he
had lived way past all of his time that
God had allowed him and as the very
last grain of sand was falling from his
hourglass time itself continued moving
forward not care less never mourning
anything or anyone at all, and as the
days of his life were over knowing that
he had not days or weeks or hours for
matter maybe minutes even seconds
the last pedal from a beautiful flower
he had been holding that had come
from his garden hit the floor, as a
soft sound of a pitter-patter could be
heard throughout the room as a cool
spring shower started a soft warm rain
begin to fall as if all the heavens above
were crying, a gentle breeze began to
blow carrying with it the very sounds
of angels singing welcoming back home
his soul, meanwhile just outside the
window pushing up through the ground
was a seedling from a mighty oak tree
that has not been seen in this area for
over a hundred and fifteen years was
now breaking free of all the chains
that once had bound it free from the
rock and dirt that had been surrounding
it up bursting out into the wind and
rain taking its first breath of air just as
the rising sun broke free for just a few
moments letting a single ray of warmth
and light filter down to the ground below
shining on the new life just as one
had faded away.

Poet Richard M Knittle Jr.
A #Poets Journey
Texas Poet Laureate Nominee 2016-2020


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