the cynic

November 22, 2009 at 5:21 am Leave a comment

He sat by a river
smoking a cigar so big
it barely fit into his mouth
his teeth were stained purple
from the half-empty bottle
of pinot noir perched against his leg

He sat and stared at the water
transfixed by the fish he couldn’t see
the rod he wasn’t holding

His breath smelled of mint
and rotting meat
and cigar, of course
and in a tree-branch a raven watched
as he pulled a pistol from his pocket
cocked back the hammer
held the barrel to his temple
and pulled the trigger

He survived
but blind

His daughter
raven-black hair
washed him tenderly
with a faded grey wash-cloth
wiped away the drool
from the corners of his mouth
and let him cry
into her shoulder
with unseeing eyes

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Entry filed under: Poetry.

What does God look like? Invictus or How To Be The Master Of Your Fate

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