I AM TURNING UGLY
Life before deliverance ought to be
enough, and if it turns out it's not we
need find someone to blame. Ourselves,
perhaps? I saw the man on the ladder,
high up, painting the spire. He couldn't
go any higher, and I wished to ask him
why? Had he ascended the heights to
his own form of happiness high? The
color was a nice white, with a sky-blue
trim; not very much a church color, but
I then found out it wasn't one anyway.
-
It was now a house : living room and
porch, alcove and entryway, all very
nice. Surrounded - as it was - by a
19th century graveyard, it had the air
of another day. A deer stood in the
weedy shrubbery, staring back at me.
-
I think of myself, in contexts such as
these, and can only conclude that I
am not up to the needed snuff: I am
turning ugly. I have blotches and scruff.
I linger and I hurt. My medallion says
'Death' yet I refuse to put it on. 'Do not
go gentle, into that good night. Rage,
rage, against the dying of the light.'
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