I clutch the stillborn corpse of all my dreams.
How long have I held her? Minutes? Hours? Years?
I stroke the cold and sunken lifeless flesh;
The smell of rotting becomes a sweet caress.

The flies that swarm and bite I don’t begrudge:
Their sting is one last thing I can still feel.
When dust to dust, may I that latter be;
Do I hold on, or does she have hold of me?

All my world, how can I let her go?
The less there is, the more I hold her close.
I find familiar comfort among the bones
And, solitary, worship what was lost.

When finally I can lay her down at last,
Who will be left to help me dig the grave?

I have a drive-under garage, which serves as overnight parking for both my car and my felines.  One of them, some time ago, developed the habit of beating up the neighbor cats, so she’s confined indoors.  So, to prevent her from escaping when I open the garage door on my way to work, I usually let her upstairs into the house first.

Picture the scene.  I walk to the basement door, open it, and ask as usual if she’d like to come upstairs.  I hear silence for a moment, then the jingle of the bell on her collar.  Instead of next hearing the delicate tread of her soft paws on the stairs (read: herd of elephants), however, I hear a crash, then scrabbling and rustling of plastic for awhile.  Then silence again.  I start down the stairs.  It’s at this point that I realize my cats are trying to kill me:  there is a tripwire stretched across the stairs at just ankle height.  And a kite, which was previously stowed on the other side of the basement, is now over against the garage door, its string spool still lodged at its starting point.

I’m moving the pruning shears.

Standing on a darkened stage
Stumbling through the lines
Others have excuses…
I have my reasons why

Nickel Creek