From now until my heart can take no more,
my lips are sealed; my pen bereft of ink.
My soul’s less sturdy than it was before;
my wild, demented brain too scaRRed to think.
From now until my Master gives me leave,
I’ll hide myself away from dark unsouls
who only seek to raze, condemn, bereave
and other narrow, bleak unholy goals.
My time is done. I’ve said all I can say.
What more is there than I’ve already said?
The time has come to hide myself away:
For I, despite all signs, am good as dead.
If on the way out through the door we meet,
I’ll kiss your brow, then smile and wash your feet.
© Alan Morrison, 2017