Poetry Under Construction

At the end of the barrel of a gun

the soldier is so concentrated on his target

he is too blind to see

that he shoots his own reflection.


Dear God…

When I stretched my arms like telephone wires to your truth

I ended up calling myself.


Some stories have to start at the end

To get to the beginning

But if the story ends how it began

Then does the story really begin at the end –

Or end at the open?

You see, the way we ended

Was as predictable

As the first night my lips found yours

Our first kiss was a promise

Neither of us was in a position to make

And our last kiss

Held a hope

Nether of us was ready to embrace

But unlike your version of the story;

My end involves a new beginning

That accepts

Nothing less

Than a story worth telling


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