Poetry Drafts

I write my own endorsements
as others never will
understand my point of view
or the struggles deep within

I sing my own hymns
from sheets I pressed and penned
not nearly divine enough – just echoes
of me seeing me being me

I will write my own obituary
on a day with a sparkling sun
where fields wave their goodbyes
and Meadowlarks lament a loss

The fruit of one’s labour cannot be measured by buckets picked, nor by uniquely labelled jars stored on shelves in dark cold cellars. Fruit, like life is a dance from dawn to dusk, between birth and death becoming attractive wearing a colourful plumage while still raw and bitter at the core. The full colour only vivid at the end when the sweet scent attracts new pursuers while the rot grows inside. As dusk turn to nightmare our cycle completes, we roam the cold dark cellars in search for uniquely labelled jars yet closed. The fruit of one’s labour cannot be measured in a single lifetime — nor in the coins left behind.