Just as the last breath one draws, <br />envies the first which was taken, <br />there is the time in between <br />which bridges the two, <br />imparting uncoloured clarity. <br /> <br />It is not always a gift, this opening, <br />which can be a whip lash critic <br />without the service of mercy, <br />underlining each ill-conceived deed <br />in one’s own blood. <br /> <br />It is all there: <br />the derelict designs, sidestepped red runners, <br />wasted tears over faces without names. <br />Corrosive words which raged to full blister, <br />milk-cream silence that curdled with review. <br /> <br />Favoured voices have grown distant, <br />while the perfume of the brighter seasons <br />has faded, leaving no legacy, <br />other than slight noise and <br />lifeblood bled dry. <br /> <br />But, penitence grows stronger, <br />ribbing us in our crippled position <br />by driving its tongue into our ear. <br />Unrewarded love, and fractures in trust <br />beget cyclic accusations from incredulous faces <br />flickering in and out, like the late August sun <br />beyond tittering, yellow-smudged leaves. <br />The grim nature of time has <br />erased all impressions in the mud, <br />and taken every earthly comfort. <br /> <br />Hard words, sharp edges, <br />‘could haves’ and ‘would haves‘, <br />are those which gleam in <br />a study of lost chances. <br />This is not the light <br />we look for, yet for some, <br />it is the one which <br />shines the brightest.<br /><br />Tara Teeling<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/kairos-on-the-deathbed/
