Waiting Around For Death

Mike Essig
Oct 12, 2018 · 1 min read

A table near a window,
above the wine dark sea,
where all the things I’ve written
return as hypocrisy.

I don’t believe in truth.
I don’t believe in love.
I’ve shouted my words to tone deaf air
and they’ve fallen back from above.

I imagined myself a holy thief.
I wanted to know and feel.
Now the altars all are broken,
and there’s nothing for me to steal.

So I sit by the open window,
and stare at that wine dark sea,
and wonder what became of love,
and what will become of me.

My story isn’t over,
but I’ve nothing left to say,
so I stare at moving water,
and recall the far away.

Leave me to my solitude,
my slowly expiring breath,
I’m hoping for some insight
as I wait around for death.


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