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For It All | Poetry

Heavenly: Photography by Shawn Michel de Montaigne

The older I get, the more childlike I become.

The blood pumping through these veins remembers those days,

though every cell that makes me me wasn't around even as late as last year.

The habits of old are worn like ancient mountains.

Some are still quite formidable, and mighty to behold.

Others have been ground to the fertile plains below.

The weather of Me has a varied climate. It has brought rain and snow,

has brought baking blue days of sameness and drizzly gray days of depression.

And through the valleys flows my lifeblood, rich and frothy.

I have endeavored to live life steadfastly,

and though I am quite averse to risk, boldly.

I have failed utterly one day in ten, probably;

two in ten saw me give up after a half-hearted try.

Three in ten waited for God or circumstance to clear my way,

and four in ten I have succeeded to a degree sufficient to encourage me to press on.

Often the road signs were obscure or deceptive;

many times they weren't there at all.

I've been known to take the wrong road with shitty passengers,

and I've been known to defend taking it, and them,

even though I knew both were eventually going to harm me.

I've closed my eyes to evils I could have fought, even defeated;

and I've been the cause of evil at times.

All this is true.

But so is my Renaissance, my Awakening, my Reckoning.

I've changed—for the better. For the much better.

I find it ironic that most would say the opposite of me.

But they are ground-down habits, and their silt has long since

washed out of my bloodstream.

I am penniless.

But I am richer today that ever I have been.

Thanks be to God for it.

For it all.


From For It All


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