Poetricity: Beginnings

Beginnings. Must come from somewhere. Do come from somewhere. A coffin cradle housing the sacred dead and undead respectively. All else is straw. Reindeer games or wooden stages or giant clanging marble worlds. Visceral violet sobs with loss. Hopeful copper sobs with gain. A choice to amputate a dying arm wedged in a mountain or to engage in armchair quarterbacking on sunny Sundays. The latter, stupidly safer. And brilliantly less perilous.

I see a beginning. A bright, hot white glow on the not too distant horizon beckoning me to join in this stacked hand of five-card stud. In whose favor I can’t say. In my past remain emerald, mint memories drizzling on a few patches of dying grass. A road I discovered belonged to me only for a time. A road now lost somewhere behind white-capped mountains. Another era transformed. I see the tombstone. It is time. For endings.