(Confessions of John Joe Hayes)

As I sit on my bed in the dark of a Saturday night of a three day weekend
I think how close we were to death today in a barber’s chair
Surrounded by straight blade razors that could cut through the carotid truth of any moment
How the barber of another man said his grandfather was honoured today as the oldest living soul in his neighborhood at 91 and so ready to die 10 years ago

And I, though I thought, I didn’t speak of how I, at over halfway there might be ready too:

Only in the late evening, after coming or not, lying in bed and thinking what is there left to do, death of ambition, what left, but to love, to live each moment in the moment, the challenge at hand, the things I said that day, the things I didn’t do come weighing in on judgment of a life, sorry soul sitting in the courtroom of Kilmainham Gaol, life so lived, what say you?

As I float away drifting into rebound of REM:

Floating around the Isles of Hypnagogia
Hibernic needles in my veins
With thoughts not right, not said, with words of readiness for death
The only thing left
To love
To let.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, September, 2017

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