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The Well Seasoned Man

I awake in the October night,
the letters coming so easily to me
what a strange world I see
through the steam from my favorite mug,
happily tapping through time
ignorant and angry at what I’ve seen, done
let the time slip through my fingers
and soon
I am weeping in January for people
I never really knew.
let the cold bite at my soul
laugh and joke
with people I hate like
I know what I’m doing.
Still the words come easily
through February,
cold and hard as the metal I write about.
the metal invading my soul
until the May sunrise wakes me,
the land steaming as it returns to life,
reminding me of my humanity
as I warm with the earth,
all the while learning about myself
and the words I write.
through the June/July afternoon,
staring at the sun
I am distracted by the spots.
I feel the words
I have embraced
leech out of me in the heat.
walk wearily feeling sorry for myself,
my flesh burning through
the August sunset into the darkness,
flashes of the past showing in my mind,
walking back restless into the night
from whence I came.
October again,
I fall back to sleep
and start the process anew.

 

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