Windmills

Monday, January 1, 2018

Windmills by John Hubertz

This year no birthday cake again.

Each day an endless battle

the one you never seem to win

against yourself and yesterdays

that weren’t forgotten.

The light of dawn leans toward you, empty.

So you cash away your wins

and Porn away Your Sins

your young man’s dreams are running

down your legs like rancid butter.

You no longer fear the blame

too old to feel the shame

and sins are things undone

kind words unspoken.

Still the eyes in the mirror never change.

So as the years go tumbling by

and the veil obscures your eyes

your knees and back and hands

now know the weather.

And sleep never seems to come
but you can almost hear the grave as it yawns — waiting, impatient.