A final year like Keats',
Poem-strewn floor,
Like flowers at my feet,
As the wedding arrives,
After 52 weeks,
And lasts but a day in the sun,
And for a few more years the marriage continues to run,
Or limp on,
A blossoming climax in the summer sun,
After a life time of being buried,
The seeds journey is done,
The cycle complete,
The circle's become,
Full,
And fat,
And rotund,
And now that it's gone
Now I've drained the fund,
The suffering is worth what has become,
A life spent in dirt,
For my moment of Sun,
To stretch out the petals and unfurl,
To silence the voices,
To show the girl,
What she's lost,
For a moment like that,
It's worth all the cost,
One aggressive, defiant last charge at life's gate,
One lightbrigade shout,
One Samson style take,
The pillars out that support their mistake,
To think that they've got you down,
Burn out and shine in the heat,
Or slowly drown.
For one last year like Keats,
Poem-strewn life,
Like flowers at my feet.
