“There comes a point when words have all been used
and nothing is the space that’s left to rhyme;
when even every thought is self-abuse” —
That’s what he pondered as he stood in line.
He wasn’t waiting at the pearly gates
(though how he wished the game would reach an end);
he floundered at the point where truth conflates
with mortal coils which never comprehend.
“If only I could make the grade”, he thought;
but beauty’s endless virtue cast him down.
His walk was wanton, wild and danger-fraught —
reluctantly became his battleground.
When silver bullet wounds have worn him thin
his steps to leave this planet can begin.
© 2011, Alan Morrison