SHOTS

SHOTS

I've all sorts of strange
aches and pains I've never felt before
(though I like to pretend
I've forgotten old wounds -
those blades have long rusted-over.)

Today's stabs are fresh
but a lot more tired,
originating somewhere in the spine,
causing nervous disconnect.

My book lays untouched on the table.
I speak to it, say: "I'd read you if I
were able." But can words really wait?
And the voice in my head: You are
already too late.

Age is a factor in my mind
dividing me from the moment.
Twenty-six and nothing really to show for it;
all those years of study and only just
beginning to know.

But who gets a paid career in self-diagnosis?
The successful artist, I suppose,
which I will never be with this sort of prose.
So what's my story?

That I once danced with Death?
That I ripped off the face of a woman
to reveal a gentle boy?
That I loved and lost... and yes, I did regret it?

The truth is, I do not get to call all the shots.
I do not often win; I am not
 always in control. But my God
do I have soul

inside every cell. Each sentence,
every pointed finger:
I transform
even as you pull the trigger.



~Tarmon~