john douglas porter @ blogspot
The problem is that everyone who ever cared about me is dead. Well, not necessarily literally dead, but passed on into another life Another world A world without me in it. But By that measure, perhaps I'm dead as well. Perhaps I'm the only one who's dead. It certainly seems that way very often. Like a ghost, I can see the world, yet remain invisible to it I linger near, yet can never touch I hear, yet can never join in the laughter.
(March 5, 2014)
On the underside of my parchment skin, tissue thin, An automatic writing slowly resolves in venous blue calligraphy Each day that passes, each fading year, I seem to see it ever clearer Yet it remains asemic, unintelligible, undeciphered A pulsing message in an alien language Each day, I peer closer, examining the grey traces and capillary filigrees For some subtle sign of intelligence But my dewdrops of hope have all but evaporated In another year, or another year, I shall be entirely faded Erased and ready for His next palimpsest
(Feb. 23, 2016)
