Posted in Poetry

The Sucker

The water runs black off my hands

To keep my conscience clean

I search in the mirror for a good man

Not knowing what that means

My back twists and breaks

Bowing to time like a withered old tree

Deep and dark like an ancient lake

Thoughts yearning to be free

Dust falls off my knees with every step

Lines growing deeper across my face

I cling to what pride I’ve kept

Desperate for it all to stop in place

Haunted by the trickle of the sand

Dogged by the second hand’s ticking

When is it time to take a stand?

Are these the right battles I’ve been picking?

More and more of me is asked

As the years come faster and faster

Coats of paint stripped from a mask

Revealing life’s one true master

Is this the face that I’ve earned?

Have the scales balanced to find the just?

Is this the sum of all I’ve learned?

Am I destined to be more than dust?

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